


Conciliabule

by EmpyrealFantasy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Challenge (of a sort), Character Death, Daddy voldemort, Dark Harry, Doctorish Barty (David Tennant portrayal; 10th Doctor influenced), Explicit Language, M/M, Mental Instability, Sadism, Smut, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Underage Sex, Violence, unlikely situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpyrealFantasy/pseuds/EmpyrealFantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're a puzzle, Harry. I'd just love to pluck out all your pieces, gather them to me like jewels. I want to seek your ins and outs, the dark corners that you tuck away. Can I solve you?"</p>
<p>Dark!Harry, AUish, lies & deceit, secret plots, mental imbalance, emotional reluctance, and just a little bit of falling in love despite it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another.  ~James Matthew Barrie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/3/14 - in hopes of convincing myself to manage writing again, I'm going over this editing it. Wish me luck and inspiration!

The sounds of terror were thick in the air, screams rending through the panicking masses.  Harry closed his eyes and _relished_ in it.  This was obviously not planned by the Dark Lord; he’d have been informed and warned if his father had decided to make a move of this magnitude.  But Harry could not help the delighted chill that ran down his spine at the permeating aura of fear.

“Oh Merlin, we’re all going to die!”

Harry wanted to curse Ron himself; the idiot was wailing as they ran, nearly trampling Hermione in his haste.  It was the most lively he’d seen the boy since his sister’s death, and Harry found himself disappointed to see that spark back.  At least in his depression he’d been silent for a change.

Harry was lagging behind the others, but neither of them noticed.  Harry let himself be tugged off course by terrified wizards that were stampeding from the Death Eaters, darting behind a wide oak tree at the first opportunity.  He kept himself in the shadows as he peered around it, watching with steadily lessening joy and growing frustration as the Death Eaters spun the campgrounds’ muggle caretakers over their heads, dodging the Aurors and Light-sided wizards that had come out to contest them.  One Death Eater was holding a screaming woman, whether she was a muggle or witch Harry wasn’t sure, under the Cruciatus while a child screamed from under her tormentor’s boot.

It was not that the acts themselves were abhorrent to Harry; no, with his upbringing, finding anything morally repugnant was unlikely.  But the plans he and his father had been concocting were dependent on surprise, on soul-wrenching, gut-curdling terror being inflicted and with as little opposition as possible.  If the press or the Ministry decided that this was more than just some rogues…

“Fools,” Harry hissed. “Don’t they realize what they’re risking?”

“What are they risking?” asked a voice from behind, causing Harry to whirl round with his wand in hand and a Dark curse on his lips. “And just who are you?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, scrutinizing the man before him. He was tall and thin with robes of the best quality that hung loosely on his frame, and it was obvious he didn’t care much about his appearance. His shaggy brown hair looked like it hadn’t been cut or styled in a great many years and it hung into sharp, intelligent brown eyes.  He had an uneven scruff along his jawline and bags beneath his eyes. But despite all that, Harry felt his breath catch in his throat and he had to shove away the desire to count each and every freckle on that strong nose with his tongue. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“Are you really?” A speculative glint entered those brown eyes as he examined him.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, trying to gain a foothold in the conversation.

“Oh, I do apologize,” said the man, flashing a roguish grin that made Harry’s heart stutter before resuming its beat at double the speed.  “Allow me to introduce myself: I am Bartemius Crouch Junior.”

Harry's eyes narrowed. That wasn't possible.

"Barty Crouch Junior is dead," he said in a steely voice. "Now tell me, who are you?"

That grin just widened and Harry's spine stiffened in response.

"Oh, I assure you, I am very much alive." The man's eyes had an almost manic gleam that paired perfectly with his mad grin.

"Show me your arm," Harry commanded. Barty Crouch Junior had been a Death Eater and the Dark Mark couldn't be faked.

The man's brow furrowed and he looked genuinely confused. "Excuse me?"

"Your left forearm," Harry barked, unwilling to let his guard down until he knew what was going on. "If you're Crouch Junior, show me your Dark Mark."

The man looked at Harry appraisingly; they were at an impasse, both unsure of the other's loyalty and of how much was safe to reveal.  Harry Potter was meant to be the very antithesis to everything that the Dark stood for, so Harry was actually pleased with the man's caution. Slowly and with obvious reluctance, he reached out with his right hand to push up his left sleeve exposing the faded Dark Mark to the cool night air.

Harry cautiously moved closer and gripped the man's forearm, thumb brushing over the skull. Before the man could pull away, Harry had his wand tip pressed against the Mark and hissed, green eyes alight and never leaving the other man's.

" ** _Burn_**."

The resulting fiery pain forced the man to his knees; his lower lip was bitten into hard to keep from screaming.

"Are you loyal?" Harry hissed out in English, sounding more like his father in that moment than ever before.

"Yes. Always," the man gasped out. Harry gave the Mark another hissed instruction and the burning stopped.

"Good," he said in an almost friendly voice. "Now then." Harry tugged on the man's arm lightly, encouraging him to stand, which he did slowly and on slightly shaking legs. Harry pulled a wand, Ron’s if he wasn't mistaken, out from where it peeked from Barty's robes and held it out for the man to take in his left hand. Harry tapped his own wand once more against the Mark. Barty gasped and his eyes turned glassy as it pulsed.  It only took a moment for Barty's face split into a wide grin as he felt the long-awaited and much-missed call of his Lord.

"There we go," murmured Harry. "The mother ship is calling you home." He chuckled at the confused look on the man's face. "Never mind. Just a few things to cover, then you can go to him. We need to stop those fools from doing further damage, but we need to make sure I'm not implicated in the process. I'm going cast a spell with your wand, then you're going to stun me and Apparate before anyone else gets here. Is that clear?"

Barty just nodded with his overwhelmed smile, his still-glassy eyes focusing just enough for Harry to trust his competence.

"Good boy." Harry, still gripping Barty's left forearm turned until his back was against the older man's chest. He slowly moved his hand down the forearm and placed it over Barty's so that he was gripping the wand with him.

Harry pointed the wand in the air, whispered, “Morsmordre!” and, before the Mark had even finished forming, spun out of Barty's arms and was facing him again. Barty pointed the wand at the youth.

"Give him my love," Harry said with a cheeky grin, just milliseconds before the red light of the Stunner hit him and darkness claimed him.

 

* * *

 

It was nearly amusing that it had all started by complete accident.

In his father’s words, he’d only been looking for sturdy, effective transport when he’d happened across the Dursleys.  They'd been in East Sussex just outside of Brighton, hardly gone from Marge’s house in one of the last rural locations Southern England had to offer.  It had been unseasonably warm and the car had overheated, stranding all three of them in the late summer sun.

They’d been discussing their trek back to Surrey when Voldemort had come across them, disembodied as he was, hitching rides on common animals in an attempt to get closer to civilization again.  His last true host, a homely wizard who had retired to the seashore, had killed himself rather than keep on possessed as he was, and the Dark Lord had realized he would need to get into London to have the best chance at finding a new magical host.

The initial possession of Vernon had only been as a pack mule, of sorts.  They had been the first non-farming folk he’d come across in days, and they had been going back to civilization posthaste.  But Vernon’s possession, by chance though it was, had set off a series of events that boggled Harry even today.  He couldn’t imagine what his life would have been like if the Dursleys had not broken down that day, or if perhaps they had come home the previous day like they had originally intended.  It was luck, pure and simple, and it had saved Harry’s life.

In Vernon’s mind, Voldemort had seen the pathetic wastrel he’d been, locked in the cupboard under the stairs.  It had been an uninteresting tidbit at first, just another reason to be disgusted by needing to have any part of him associated with a muggle, but then… then he’d found the memories.  A little boy, gaunt and dirty, angry and making objects fly around the room.  Objects disappearing around the house, only to be found in the cupboard when the boy had been locked in for days.  Burns inflicted over the stove (his Aunt had pushed his hands onto the burners when he did not perform adequately) healed the next morning.

It was only these things which had made Voldemort _rip_ through Vernon’s mind, sending him to his knees on the side of the road, gleaning every detail he could.  That the child had been the one who had brought he, the Dark Lord Voldemort, to his knees had horrified and disgusted him.  His father had hesitated at this part in the telling, but years later he had filled in the blanks.  Initially, he had planned to kill Harry with Vernon’s meaty fists, take the man home and wring the scrawny boy’s neck.  He’d been chagrined and apologetic when he told Harry this, and Harry had forgiven him easily.

In the end, obviously, he had not killed him.  Voldemort had kept attached to Vernon, ruined mentally though he was now, directing him down the road only by the remnants of memory.  His father said it had been his eyes that had changed his mind, Avada Kedavra green and terrified, but resilient nonetheless.  Bright with life and glinting with fury, even at the young age of six.

Voldemort had seen himself in young Harry, and that had ultimately changed both their lives.

There had been many obstacles in those early years.  Petunia had needed to live no matter what, since the blood wards were tied to her.  If they had fallen, Dumbledore would have been there in an instant.  Vernon needed to be seen leaving the house for “work” every day at least for a little while, so as to allay suspicion.  Harry could not be removed from the house, nor could Voldemort take a new body and still be staying in the house.

But a muggle body was a muggle body.  It had no magical core, and Voldemort had been highly unhappy having to live without his magic, wandless though he was.  And so he had begun to build one.  Harry remembered hours of meditation for the two of them, himself for the building blocks of Occlumency, his father to weave magic into the obese muggle. 

By the time Harry was eight, he had a firm grasp on reading, writing, and math as well as a closed mind.  It was only then that his father had conceded that he needed to begin his magical education, and he finally believed he knew how they could go about it without raising suspicion.

They had traveled much in the next years, both as a "family”, dragging Petunia and Dudley along, and just the two of them with the use of a Time-Turner.  With the Time-Turner, they could still be seen in the neighborhood, but then portkey to the continent for a day, perusing Magical Paris, Berlin, or Moscow.  Harry had been lavished with books and supplies there, his father spoiling him absolutely rotten.  It was in those times, the Dark Lord’s arm tentatively around his shoulders in an awkward attempt at closeness, when he first felt like he had a real family, a father, someone to belong with.

Petunia had been miserable in those years.  Harry had watched her fade into the shadows, eyes dimming, skin becoming slack.  Where she had always been a skinny woman with an unpleasant face, the loss of the husband she had known had done her in. Dudley became more dependent on her, since “Vernon” wanted nothing more to do with them.  Both fell into shades of their previous selves.  Harry couldn’t help but think they deserved whatever came to them.

Marjorie Dursley had been the first person he’d killed.  It had been only a week before his Hogwarts letter arrived and his eleventh birthday, though due to the time-turner use he had no idea the age he’d truly been, just as he still was really unsure of his real age.  But he remembered vividly how his father had watched with deep, deep pride in his crimson eyes as Harry had made her writhe before him.  He’d used flaying curses and skin-stripping hexes interspersed with Blood Replenishing potions to keep her living as long as possible, Summoning her toenails and teeth to him then banishing them back under her skin.

Harry missed those days sometimes.  No Golden Boy persona to play, no watching his back every moment.  Just he and Voldemort, exploring magic together, learning and growing closer together.  His father had called him his weakness once when he was young, and Harry remembered the gratification he had felt later when his father had called him an asset instead, strong enough to stand beside him and not be a liability.  He still felt that pride in every waking moment.

Consciousness was a sudden thing, the _Rennervate_ jolting him like an electric shock.

“Harry!”

He blinked rapidly, trying to come back to himself, vision obscured by a sea of brown.  As hair went up his nose he sneezed, and Hermione and her bushy head finally backed off.

“We were so worried, where _were you_?  Oh Merlin, it’s terrible!”

He peered up at the canopy of trees above him, taking in the fading green of the Dark Mark still sprawled across the sky.  He shivered and pasted on a confused expression.  “What’s happened?”

The wizards around him began babbling near-incoherently, all rising to talk above the others.  One man strode forward, and Harry was both displeased and curious to see that it was Crouch Senior.  “You!” he snarled, leaning over Harry with his wand out.  “Did _you_ conjure the Dark Mark, boy?”

He hated being called ‘boy’.  His lip lifted in a snarl before Arthur Weasley filled his vision, standing over Harry with more authority than Harry had ever seen him muster.  “Remember who you’re talking to, Barty.  The boy was unconscious when we found him; I doubt he could have had anything to do with this.”

The Senior Crouch Summoned Harry’s wand then, casting Priori Incantatem with a growl in his voice, but the last spell he’d cast with his much-loved Holly wand had been a locking spell on his trunk.  The man’s face contorted in anger.  Harry snatched it back from him and clutched it close protectively.

“Look here,” a woman Harry didn’t know called, kicking fallen leaves to the side.  “There’s a wand here on the ground.”

Crouch was out of Harry’s line of vision immediately, and Harry took this time to sit up properly and try to push himself into a standing position.  Mr. Weasley was at his side immediately helping him up, shakily asking if he was feeling all right.  Harry tried his damndest not to shake the blood traitor’s hands off of him.

“Whose wand is this?!” Crouch bellowed, turning with the stick Harry knew the man’s son had dropped only minutes ago.  “Who is the miscreant that called the Dark Mark into the sky?”

“Oh blimey,” Harry heard Ron whimper behind him.

Crouch stormed towards him, gripping Ron by the collar of his robes with shaking hands.  Harry’s eyes narrowed.  Why was he so enraged?  Was it only coincidence so soon after Harry had stood pressed against the man’s supposedly long-dead son?

Another shout from the other side of the clearing had people racing away, but Harry took the moment to lean back against a tree, catching his breath and calming his thoughts.  He Occluded as well as he could with all the madness around him, the air filled with sobs rather than screams now.  Harry was glad that Barty the younger had been able to get the idiots to pack up and get out of there as he’d wished.

He peered across at the commotion the others were making, a shout from Amos Diggory filling in his confused blanks.  A house elf?  What in the hell was going on?

 

* * *

 

Harry was becoming more and more agitated as the day wore on.  He had wanted to owl his father to update him on the stupidity of his minions, but he couldn’t risk sending out Hedwig and once he was in Hogwarts it was too risky to send out post.  He wished he could have spent the last of his break at his father’s estate in Little Hangleton, dreary and dilapidated though it still was.  They had only very recently been able to start repairing it with the return of his father’s body and magic.  However, as Harry-Potter-the-Orphan, he had no excuse to turn down the _kindness_ of spending several days in a massive swamp of redheads.

He was free now, and though he wished he could see his father, he was glad to be back in Hogwarts.  Magic sang here, vibrated across his senses, and rose in a joyous symphony with his own magic.  It was a feeling he always forgot the stunning magnitude of until he returned to Hogwarts once more.

But that didn’t make it easier sitting across from Ron and Hermione as they bickered like children.

“Slave labor,” she was muttering, staring in horror as the meal changed from the main course to dessert.  “I’ve been taking advantage for years now…”

“Cor, Hermione, relax!” Ron choked out around his spotted dick.  “Like you said, you’ve been eating here for years.  The House Elves are _happy_ as they are, why else would they do it?  Ya think that the Headmaster would really keep them if they were so impressed or whatever?”

“Oppressed,” she muttered, glaring darkly at him.  “I’ll have you know—“

He’d never been happier to see Albus Dumbledore stand, congenial smile plastered in place, sky-blue robes bright and cheerful as he raised his arms.  “Shh!” Harry hissed at them.

The announcements were much the same as they were every year right up until he mentioned the lack of Quidditch in the school year to come.  He was joined by Fred and George as well as more than a few students from other houses on his feet, hands slamming into their house tables as they shouted denials.  The Headmaster sent a quelling, gentle smile to them all and waved them back into their seats.  “Now, now, children, there is a reason for this!  This year Hogwarts has the highly dignified honor…”

The Tri-Wizard Tournament.  He’d known, of course; his father had only been in proper contact with a few of his Death Eaters, but he still had eyes and ears everywhere.  But _cancelling Quidditch_?

The excitement rose to a near fevered pitch, students chattering in excitement about the opportunity for “glory” in winning the tournament.  Harry, himself, was far from looking forward to this.  He knew that one of his fellow students was a servant of his father’s, and that they would be Confounding whatever was choosing the Champions.  It wouldn’t do, of course, for Voldemort to appear to be overlooking Harry Potter.  The Headmaster expected some kind of nefariousness of his former student, his father said.  The Headmaster was entirely convinced that he knew all there was to know about him.

Harry wished he could shuck this persona away.

He let his eyes fall over his fellow students, wondering just who had been replaced.  He had seen no obvious signs yet, but he was sure something would catch his attention soon.  Whomever it was would not know his relationship with the Dark Lord, so they would probably strive to make his life a living hell on principle.

The excited murmurs turned into frightened shrieks as the doors to the Great Hall slammed open, bouncing off the stone walls.  An absolutely horrifying man stalked in then, gnarled like an ancient tree, scarred and pock-marked with age and old injuries.  His eyes were the most damning, frightening feature, though, and even Harry found himself shrinking back as lightning streaked across the Great Hall’s sky.

Only one eye was human – though squinting, creased, and dark.  The other was terrifying.  It was round and large on the cragged face, never still even for a moment.  It rolled and whirled, seeming to be trying to look in all directions at once.  It pinned him as the man limped by and the owner tilted his head, a teeth-baring mockery of a smile on his face as he winked that one human eye.

Harry sat stunned as the man hobbled his way up to Dumbledore, who greeted him with pleased aplomb.  His introduction put him down as the famous Auror Mad-Eye Moody, hunter of Dark Wizards and their new Defense professor for the year.

Harry watched him warily, pieces of the puzzle falling into place in his mind.  His father had to be out of his damned mind to replace _Moody_ of all people… but the biggest question was who with?

The answer came as Dumbledore dismissed them all, the entire Great Hall standing and speaking at once.  Harry sought the grizzled Auror’s eyes over the crowd and the man grinned… a half-mad, toothy, roguish grin so at odds with the face it was on that Harry could not help but laugh in horrified understanding.

This year would prove interesting, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Foremost, all credit for this plot idea, the inspiration, most of the opening scene (mussed around a bit with the language and a few points that didn't fit with where I was going, but it is 95% her), the general backstory, and permission to use all of the above goes solely to Belle's Noir for her fic Bittersweet. Read it. Going off the same idea, we intend to explore two entirely different directions, and I couldn’t have done this without her.


	2. One's real life is often the life that one does not lead.  ~Oscar Wilde

Under the protection of his invisibility cloak and with the sound of his steps muffled, Harry skated through the quiet pre-term halls of Hogwarts.  Most students were in their dorms catching up with one another, and even the prefects and professors were lax in their patrols on the first night back.

He relished in the utter silence, peeking at the Marauder’s Map at intersections, following the path to the small, pacing marker titled _Bartemius Crouch, Jr._ at the base of Ravenclaw’s tower.  He wasn’t even in the proper corridor when he saw the figure move towards the door to the room, standing still, obviously awaiting something. 

He stopped in front of a severe suit of armor that the map said was the entrance, glaring up as it lifted its mace with a menacing… tilt to its head?  Harry wasn’t sure how something without a face could be so expressive, but it was nonetheless.  With hunched shoulders it raised a mace, tilting up its chin.

With a loud thud that echoed throughout the corridor, the armor suddenly lowered its arm in a heavy swing that should have cracked the stone it impacted.  Instead the wall the armor leant against swung inward, revealing a dark, dusty hall with faint light at the end of it.

Despite the map telling him only Barty was in the room, he couldn’t help the chill of apprehension that ran down his spine.  He folded the map and pocketed it, pulling out his wand and stepping as silently as he could.  There were cobwebs clinging to the low ceiling.  He could see into the rooms themselves now, barren though they were.  Aside from a pair of wingback chairs and a high, wide bookshelf, the only décor was an assortment of gadgetry that Harry only recognized half of.

He tugged the cloak closer to him as he stepped into the room, wand at the ready, scanning the room in sweeping motions as his father had always taught him to.

He gasped as an arm snaked around his waist, pinning his wand arm to his side, and yanked him back against a warm human body.

“Now, now, Young Lord, you neglected to cancel out the sound of your breathing.”  A second hand pulled down the hood of his cloak, and he leaned back to look into the floating head of Barty Crouch Junior, eyes glinting in delight.  That second hand traced his jaw and tipped back his head, fingers dancing over his Adam’s apple.  “You’re lucky I am who I am, else I’d have separated your pretty little head from your lovely little shoulders.”

Harry couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through him, leaning back harder on instinct.  The arm around his waist tightened and Harry fought to breathe.  “Erm, honestly, I don’t know that I’ve learned the spells necessary to do that.”  He knew the theory, of course, but his father had focused on offensive magic almost completely.  He knew curses, hexes, and charms to harm or stop another in a myriad of ways, but other arts had been left by the wayside.

“Oh?” Barty said with obvious surprise. “I’ll have to teach you then, won’t I?  Fancy that, actually getting to teach as a teacher.” Fingers, long and pale, dragged across his stomach as he was released, but then Barty was gently pushing him forward.  He pulled off both invisibility cloaks and spun Harry around, bending low at the waist and bringing Harry’s knuckles to his lips.  Their eyes met and held as Barty smiled, lips still pressed against Harry’s skin.  “I am at your service, Young Lord.”

As his hand was released, leaving Harry feeling strangely dizzy and bereft, Harry fought down the urge to grab the hand back into his own.  Instead he forced a smile, straightened his posture, and tried to summon back the control and ease of interaction his father had instilled in him. 

He raised his wand to the man, jaw clenched in that same, insincere smile.  “You are obviously who you say you are, but I want to know _how_.  You died in Azkaban.  If you had, in fact, escaped from Azkaban, where have you been?  Why did you not seek to restore the Dark Lord if you were walking free?”

Sharp brown eyes shuttered and the man tensed.  His tongue flicked against his lips.  “My father has had me under the Imperious curse since I was removed from Azkaban.”

Harry stifled a gasp.

“The dead body in Azkaban was, I assume, my mother.  I’ve been under lock and key in my father’s home in London.”  He paused then, eyes focusing as he bared gritted teeth, his eyes blazing. “He kept me from _my Lord_ , my great and magnificent Lord.  I will see him dead for that.” 

“You would kill your father?” asked Harry hesitantly.  He did not ask with disgust, only curiosity.

He turned to Harry, near snarling, stalking forward like a great jackal.  “I lived a half life, Young Lord.  Can you imagine?  I was eighteen years old when they threw me in that prison.  When I finally freed myself from my father’s grasp enough to look into a mirror and comprehend what I saw, _I did not even recognize myself_.  I have missed my entire adult life!” he ended in a roar, leaning over and tearing at his hair.

Harry shivered, unable to even fathom what this man had gone through.  He took a hesitant step forward, but Barty’s head flicked up then, tongue wetting his lips compulsively.

“Yes, Young Lord, I could kill him,” said Barty lowly, straightening ever-so slowly. “I would rejoice in the opportunity.  I would love to have him writhe beneath my wand, begging to be freed.  I can never have back what he took from me, and I would see him dead in an instant.”

Harry pulled back the hand that had unconsciously hovered between them, scowling to himself that it had moved without his active knowledge.  He looked towards the shadows that danced on the stone walls, uneasy in the silence but not sure how to break it.

“Harry Potter,” Barty sang, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence.  Harry looked back to see the man grinning again, dancing towards the wingback chairs at the fireplace and falling into one, legs draped languidly over the arm. “Harry, Harry Potter.  How does Harry Potter end up in the service of my glorious and magnificent Lord?  What magic has been made to bring such an end?”  Barty laughed and the sound was half delight and half madness, and Harry thought himself odd for finding it attractive.

“No magic.  Pure luck,” Harry said with a shrug, speaking only the truth.  He walked to the second chair and sat uncomfortably on the edge.

“Oh, Young Lord, surely you jest,” Barty kicked one of his legs to lie over the back of the chair, effectively rotating him more in the chair.  “Harry Potter, knelt at the feet of my powerful Lord, Heir in name and power.  Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, believed Chosen One by all the silly little peasants.  There must be magic here, _Harry_.  ‘Tis only a matter of what sort of magic it is.”

Harry steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them, watching the man babble with bright, clever eyes.  Harry could see why he had been a favorite of his father’s for so long.  He was quick and blunt, guileless, all with the masterful logic of the Ravenclaw genius he was.  _‘And half mad,’_ Harry added mentally, though that wasn’t necessarily a negative.  The years and insanity seemed to have only deepened Barty’s devotion to the Dark Lord.

“The change in plans has startled me,” Harry said finally, cutting off the murmured stream of praises for Voldemort.  “Originally, a student was going to be removed from the picture and replaced by one of the few Death Eaters privileged enough to know the Dark Lord has returned.”

Barty flashed a grin.  “It was a last minute decision.  To be a part in my Lord’s reemergence into the Wizarding world…” Barty tipped back his head and closed his eyes, grin stretching wider.  “I am honored with his trust in me, to lay your safety and the sanctity of our plans in my hands.  My Lord is truly magnificent.”

Harry hummed in his throat.  “Your position as a Professor in this school gives equal parts advantage and disadvantage to the plans as they are. Will there be any major revisions now that you are here?”

Barty shook his head, trimmed brown hair swaying lightly.  It was shorter than it had been at the World Cup but still not at all styled, sticking up jauntily in the front.  “All remains the same.  You will be an unexpected fourth Tri-Wizard Champion; you will win and reach the cup in whatever manner they contrive to test you.  You will be Portkeyed to where my Lord awaits and, with your invitation as an accepted student of the school, he and a few chosen will be brought back to Hogwarts to give a dramatic return to the public eye.”

He wondered how this would play out now that he had assistance.  He was pleased – more than he cared to admit – to have Barty in the school, but he was wary of any sudden changes to the plan they had been concocting for the last two years.  But to have a Professor in the school both aware of who he was and where his allegiances laid was a boon of the highest caliber, and he knew to be grateful. 

When he came back to himself and focused on Barty, it was to find the man balancing precariously on the edge of his seat, leaning to nearly touch Harry across the space between them, hands on his knees.  “Now tell me, Young Lord, if you will… how have you managed all these secrets right under Albus Dumbledore’s nose?”

He leaned back, half wary and half breathless, his eyes fastened on the hyper-intelligent brown eyes in front of him.  “I manage them because I keep as few as possible within these walls.  When I am here, I am Harry Potter: Boy-Who-Lived.  I am a good Gryffindor who only wants everyone to be safe and happy, who befriends Mudbloods and Blood Traitors, who has not a thought in his mind about anything but keeping dead the killer of his parents.”  He waved a hand a bit.  “In truth, you’re the first person but my father and me to know any of this.  He does not trust his servants readily, as you know.”

Barty jerked a bit, eyes narrowing.  “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so trusting.  I could be a spy; I could be here to ruin the Dark Lords plans.  I could be looking for weaknesses in you and him to bring all of this down around your head.  How would you know?”

“I know,” Harry said at length, surprised by how honest it felt. The man’s gaze did not soften.  “You were one of my father’s most faithful: a prized follower in all ways.  He has always spoken most fondly of you, of your sharp wit and intelligence. You know who he truly is; you know the life he has led.  You only loved him more for it.  No, you would never harm him.”

“And you?”

Harry smirked.  “My father would have killed you the moment you Apparated to him if you had even the inkling.”

Barty returned the smirk, tilting his head to prop in his hand.  “You know me so well already.”

“Only so much as my father could tell.”

The smirk widened and narrowed all at once, becoming sinuous and sly.  “I am sure we’ll have much time to get to know one another, Young Lord.”

Goosebumps rose instantly, and Harry fought down the reaction.

“If you’re interested in sharing, why not tell me how it is, exactly, that you have come to call my Lord _father_?  He told me much before I came here, but he did not tell me this.”

Harry realized his mistake now and damned himself for it.  He peered at Barty through his lashes, assessing the bright, mad gleam in his eyes, the eager cant of his body.  The man breathed for Harry’s father, for Harry himself.  The Darkness was the entire world to this man and, if anyone was to be trusted, Harry felt that person had to be Bartemius Crouch, Junior.    “Well, I suppose it would help for you to know that… if only to fully grasp the circumstances. It all started with a whale, a horse, and a pig…”

 

* * *

 

“In the Chamber, I found it was a diary my father had created that contained… a shade of himself from his Hogwarts years.  The Weasley girl was dying from his influence and it was only a matter of waiting.  That year really highlighted how inconvenient it is that I cannot contact my father from September to June.  If I had been able to ask him, I’d have known much sooner what was happening.”

Barty looked thoughtful, humming in the back of his throat.  But after a moment of silence he didn’t address whatever had him suddenly distant, thinking deeply.  “His return was strong, then?  He looks perfectly healthy, of course, but if there is anything I could do to make his well-being more sure—“

Harry shook his head.  “Don’t worry, it was seamless.  He possessed the body of his shade and, with a ritual he had had already prepared and a few small modifications, he was able to regain himself entirely: magic, blood, and mind.  I’m grateful for it, as that let him take me in fully.”

“So he’s adopted you by rite of blood and magic, then?”

“Mmm,” said Harry.  “Just that summer.  Once he’d regained his body we’d gone about the ritual immediately.  I only wish it worked on a more physical level, I had grand hopes for hair that didn’t stand on end.”

It was early morning before Barty shooed him away, fingers lingering on Harry’s shoulder and hip as he guided him to the door.  “There is no password; Moody would never leave such an abominable weakness.  But the guard knows you now and I will ensure you are always allowed in when you wish it, no matter the circumstances, Young Lord.”

Harry smiled before it was broken with a yawn, and then he was on his way back to Gryffindor Tower and a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Hah!” Ron chortled, watching with satisfaction as his Knight pummeled Harry’s Queen.

Harry hated chess.

“That was better, mate.  You lasted fifteen minutes that time!”

For all his complaints about Ron’s pathetic existence, he had to give the boy credit for his skill with strategy.   Voldemort had tried early on to teach Harry the game, but as the years wore on it became obvious that Harry was really just terrible at it.  He had no head for strategy and it showed in every sacrificing move he accidentally made on the chessboard.

He was ashamed to admit it, but he hadn’t had to lie to the Sorting Hat to get into Gryffindor.  He had rejected Slytherin first, yes, but Gryffindor was its easy second choice.  He was brash and headstrong at the best of times, he knew.

His pieces were jeering at him, and his King was mooning him.  Harry pushed back from the board with disgust. 

“Aww, mate, s’all right.  You’ll get better the more we play!”

Harry wanted to strangle him.

“Really, Ronald.  You should both be working on your Potions essay that Professor Snape assigned.  It is due tomorrow afternoon!”

“That greasy git,” Ron grumbled, obviously giving in as he slinked over to the couch.  “He knew there was only a two-day break between classes, why would he assign so many inches?!”

“Because he’s Snape,” said Harry, waving a hand.  “His job in life is to make ours hell.”

“ _Professor_ Snape, Harry.  And really, he has much better things to do that worry about the lives of us three.  Now, I’ve decided to focus on the primary differences between ground and powdered ingredients in this, you can do something else if you’d like.”

Harry wasn’t going to tell them this, but he’d already finished his assignment.  When anywhere but near Snape, he enjoyed Potions well enough.  He had always had a knack for cooking, and though more volatile than any pasta could ever be, he could see the parallels and understood it, though he had no great talent.

But oh, how he loathed Snape.

Snape, one of his father’s beloved followers.  Once upon a time he had been one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal, skilled, and ruthless.  He remembered the tales his father had spun of the first war as bedtime stories for him, and Snape was often a forward player in these.  He was a deft hand at potions but was even more adept at Spellsmithing, with a sharp, Dark mind that came up with some of the most ghastly new curses the Dark had seen in centuries.

He trusted his father that Snape had once been his without doubt.  His father, however, could not see the man now.  After years of watching Snape, he was sure he’d fallen beneath Dumbledore’s thumb in the years since his father’s downfall.  In first year, he’d been the primary factor in Quirrell being unable to snatch the Philosopher’s Stone for the Dark Lord.  And, while he despised Harry Potter bitterly as any loyal Death Eater was apt to, the hatred was just too personal.  This was not the anger of a servant for the loss of his Lord, this was the hate of a small-minded man for the son of a bully.

Snape was an asset to the Dark Sect and his father was loathe to off him, but deep down Harry didn’t really see it turning out any other way.  He was too stubborn, too wrapped up in Dumbledore’s machinations.

But then, Harry _was_ terrible at strategy. He knew his own shortcomings; he knew he could be making his judgments on perception and partial information.

He glanced back at Ron and Hermione to see that their faces were growing steadily redder with anger.  He had tried to at least become fond of them over the years, to make this whole performance easier, but he’d never managed it.  Ron was an imbecile and a bigot, Hermione was so insecure and ‘by the book’, all puns intended, that she lacked any creativity.  They were infuriating.

“If you’re not going to listen to a word I say, I’m not going to keep helping you!”

“You call this help?  This is just you lording over me!”

“You—  I— ARGH.”

Harry tried to slink away, but Hermione pinned him with a snarling glare.

“And just where do you think _you’re_ going, Harry?”

He gritted his teeth and couldn’t stop the roll of his eyes.  “Somewhere where I can hear myself think.  You two are giving me a headache.”

She deflated instantly, looking hurt, but Ron just seemed to direct his anger towards Harry instead.  “So this is how it is, huh Harry?  Can’t even stick up for your best mate?”

“Why in the world should I have to?  You’re just bickering like children.” Ron was truly angry now, but Harry just stood and walked towards the stairs to the dorm.  “Never mind, I’m going to bed.”

He heard Ron bellowing as he took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the little voice in his head that told him he could grab his Invisibility cloak and head towards Ravenclaw tower.  Instead, he pulled out a charmed copy of a book his father had gotten him for his last birthday, _Summoning Shadows_ , and slipped into his bed to read by wandlight.

 

* * *

 

The first week of term passed without anything of much importance, though Harry had received an owl from Sirius that had given him pause.  He still didn’t know what to do about the man.  He had no need for a father figure, not that Sirius seemed capable of it.  From what he could tell, the man was too stunted for that.  As with Barty, his life had been put on pause in 1981.  He’d been imprisoned most of his adult life, and Harry couldn’t even imagine the scars that left on a person who, for all intents and purposes, was innocent. 

Despite that, he couldn’t help but feel a fondness for him.  It was overly sentimental of him and the notion had made his father sneer in disdain, but he hadn’t rebuked him.  Harry appreciated that and loved his father all the more for it.  Even in Harry’s weakness he was accepted.

He was on his way to lunch with his ‘friends’ when Draco Malfoy began shouting, and Harry resisted the urge to slam has face into his hand.  The boy was a menace.  He was almost as intolerable as Hermione and Ron, just in an entirely different way.  This was a boy whose views aligned with his own – he shouldn’t be so damned irritating to him!  Perhaps it was the life of the spoilt heir that had made him so grating, or maybe it was just Harry’s intolerance for people his “own” age.

“Weasel!” the boy called with a malicious grin.  “Have you seen?  Your father’s in the paper!”

He’d played his part properly, looking offended at the right times and angry at others.  He darted to Ron’s defense when explosion from the redhead was obviously imminent.  “You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry as he grabbed the back of Ron’s robes. “That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?”

Pink fanned quickly across the bridge of Draco’s nose quite attractively on the boy’s pale face, but the quick spark of attraction Harry felt was doused as the boy lifted his lip in a snarl. “Don’t insult my mother, Potter!”

He’d turned to help Hermione haul Ron into the Great Hall when he heard an enraged shout. “OH NO YOU DON’T!”

Pale yellow spell-light grazed his hair as he whipped back around, seeing Barty charging down the marble stairs, Moody’s wooden leg thunking against each step.  There was a cacophonous BANG! as the form of the old Auror hobbled towards him with purpose, and Harry just barely glimpsed a white ball of fur where Draco had stood.

A hand insistently gripped his forearm, and he saw real rage in Moody’s borrowed eyes.  “Did he get you?”

He shook his head mutely, wincing lightly as the gnarled hand clamped down harder.  He bellowed, “LEAVE IT!” before spinning and glaring at one of Draco’s lackeys, Crabbe or Goyle (Harry always forgot which was which), who had approached the small animal Draco had been turned into.  Was… was that a ferret?

Whatever it was, it was running now, streaking for the low stone passage that Harry knew to contain the dungeons.

“I don’t think so!” Barty flung Moody’s wand out in a wide arc, twirling it in a small circle that sent the white ferret into a barrel roll then flying up towards the ceiling.

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” growled Barty as he sent Draco into the floor then back higher before crashing him back down. Harry tried not to grin as he squealed in pain. “Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do…”

 “Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice.

Harry, who was still standing directly behind him, pressed his hand to Moody’s elbow and hissed in his ear, “The jig is up.”

“What - what are you doing?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s progress through the air.

“Teaching,” Barty said with a disinterested air.  Harry was at once smothering laughter and horrified… and more than a little frightened.  Barty could _not_ be caught out because Draco Malfoy was a git.  He wouldn’t allow it to happen.

But it was not an issue, he found.  He hadn’t known anything about Moody beyond his reputation, but apparently nearly breaking every bone in a student’s body as he smacked him into the stone floor was not too far out of the norm for him.  McGonagall had been appalled, yes, but not overly surprised.

He ran to Barty’s rooms after classes that day, not bothering to pause for his cloak, ensuring he was not watched as he slid into the man’s rooms.  He was still wearing Moody’s skin, which revolted Harry a bit, but he couldn’t stop grinning at him.  “Did you really turn Malfoy into a ferret in my defense?”

Barty grumbled, tromping on Moody’s wooden leg to the bookshelf.  “Arrogant little shit, trying to harm _my_ Young Lord.  He’s lucky I didn’t feed him to the Thestrals once I was done with him!”

Harry smiled as Barty ranted, tongue flicking against his lips as he spouted off Dark curses he’d like to take out on Draco’s hide.  He leaned against the passage entrance and just watched the man, flipping through books and obviously looking for something in particular.

“Here!” Barty barked, Moody’s voice rough as always.  Even alone with Harry, when Barty was in Moody’s skin, he _was_ Moody.  With an errant flick of his wand he’d conjured a small table, and a grumbled Summoning charm had a small box flying out of his bedroom.  Harry began walking closer but was stopped by the mad spinning of Moody’s magical eye, pinning him in place.  “Hate backstabbing cowards.  His whiny ponce of a father renounces our Lord to stay in his soft and cushy bed, teaches his son to have just as much misplaced self-importance as he does—“

Halfway through whatever task Barty had buried himself in, Harry could see the signs of Polyjuice wearing off.  He dashed over and Barty accepted his help unstrapping the wooden leg as he brutally forced out the magical eye, a sight that made Harry’s stomach turn.  But quickly enough Barty was there in Moody’s oversized clothing, the broader shirt dipping low on his chest.

His concentration did not waver.

Harry, after checking to be sure there was still significant time before dinner, wandered around the room, perusing the bookshelf and running his fingers over the small Dark magic detection devices in the room.  One, a small bronze and copper series of concentric rings, began whirling madly as he brushed his fingers across it, nearly flying apart from the speed.

Harry pulled down a book entitled _Rituals Involving Limited Human Sacrifice_ , leafing through the pages.  The first page he flipped to, a ritual to give the caster metamorphmagus abilities, had a very grizzly picture of a specific way to hang a disemboweled person for their blood to drain properly.  Harry moved on past that quickly. 

He was engrossed on a nearly feasible-sounding ritual to rewrite past events in a single person’s mind when chilled fingers tipped back his head against a bony shoulder, and he found himself looking up at Barty’s jaw, stubble lining it.  Harry blinked.  “Done, then?”

It took Harry a moment to realize the contact was not spontaneous, but that Barty seemed very intent on something near the short hairs on the back of Harry’s neck.  After a period of time that Harry’s libido insisted was at least ten minutes but was likely no more than a single one, Barty finally stepped back with a pleased, “Aha!”

Harry turned and glanced at him with confusion, taking in the more-mussed-than-usual fluff of Barty’s hair and the way he could see all the way down the man’s sternum due to the size of Moody’s collar.  He forced his eyes up.

With a wave of Barty’s wand a mirror was between them, and Harry noticed the addition immediately.  It was small and, if it was meant to be spherical, misshapen.  It was a deep hue of blue that seemed almost black in the shadows, and it was wrapped in a swirl of delicate bronze wire.  Ravenclaw colors, Harry realized with amusement.  It was a necklace, attached with thin leather cord and settled in the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Don’t take it off.  Ever.  Especially this year, but ever.” Harry peered around the mirror to see Barty avoiding his eyes.  “I take my Lord’s orders seriously, and your safety is one of his highest concerns.  Keep that on and I’ll always know when you need me.”

“Is this all because Malfoy tried to hex me?” He kept his eyes on Barty’s face, fingers catching and tightening on the man’s wrist without thought, lowering the mirror to chest-height.

“Curse,” he said with a frown.  “That was a variation of the Choking Curse that tricks you into thinking it is over after a few minutes, but over the next hours and days slowly closes off your air supply more and more.” Barty released the mirror and let it Banish as he finally met Harry’s eyes.  “I won’t let harm come to you.  That traitorous bastard Karkaroff will be here this term, as will any number of others who don’t know of your greatness.  Even over our mission, your well-being is the most important thing.”

Harry released Barty’s wrist, raising his hand to touch the bauble at his throat.  “What will it do?”

“It will tell me when I’m needed, that is all.  I put a series of empathy spells on it with a modified Protean charm, as well as a few sensing spells and monitoring charms.  Any harm comes to you, I’ll get there as quickly as possible.”

Harry nodded mutely and stepped back, casting _Tempus_ , cursing as he realized dinner was only minutes away.  “May I come back tonight?”

Barty frowned.  “This weekend.  I have a few things I’m in the middle of.”

It wasn’t right to feel disappointed.  “See you in class tomorrow, then.”

“Aye,” Barty said softly, looking into the fire now.  He didn’t turn to look at Harry as he left.


	3. I know well what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of. ~Michel de Montaigne

Harry relished in the wind ripping through his hair as he went into a freefall, forcing his instincts down as he pried open his fingers and let go of the broom. With only his legs clamped around it, he threw out his arms to his sides, eyes closed, letting gravity take him as it would.

He had missed this.

He was less than fifty feet from the ground when he gripped his broom again, yanking hard to pull it out of its unrestrained fall. His shoe just barely grazed the grass of the pitch before he was in control again.

His Firebolt was so responsive. His Nimbus 2000 had been amazing, but this… this was _magical_. He needed to write to Sirius again and thank him for the gift.

"Potter, you reckless imbecile!"

He reeled his broom around and glared towards the hated form of Professor Snape, touching down and swinging off his broom. He didn't respond, just waited for the man to storm up to him in the falling darkness, eyes alight with anger and yellowed teeth bared in a snarl. What was he even doing out here?

"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Arrogant, foolish little heathen! Twenty points from Gryffindor for sheer idiocy!"

Oh, how he loathed him. "You can't take points for _flying_ , you great bat!"

"Ten more for your cheek, Potter," spat Snape, rankled and irate. "And detention with me all weekend, from lunch to curfew!"

Lunch to curf—that bastard! Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were arriving in two nights' time. If he was in detention, he would miss the welcoming ceremony.

He just wouldn't attend detention that night, Snape be damned.

He tensed his jaw in the most mulish look possible, sweeping past Snape on his way back to the castle. The man snarled, but Harry kept walking, and his professor did not follow.

October had brought a chill to the air, and Harry found himself thinking of Yule. It had been three years since he had spent the holidays with his father; their quiet nights with the Yule log, thanking magic, were some of the most amazing memories he had. This year would be par for the course, though Hogwarts, at least, had a few things going for it this year that it had not other years.

As if summoned by the thought of him, Barty tromped around the corner up ahead, Moody's clawed wooden leg and walking stick preceding him. Harry gave him a nod which was returned with a wink, moving past him towards the library. He had both Charms and Transfigurations essays due that week and needed to work on them, even if he'd much rather be holed up in Barty's rooms in front of the fire.

The library was quiet and dark, curfew falling in just an hour's time. Behind the musty Household Charms shelf he pulled his Invisibility cloak around his shoulders, creeping through the shadows to the Restricted Section. He Confounded the spell that monitored for intrusions, slipping past it and into the living darkness of the windowless room.

" _Foolish are nestlings who creep where Darkness breeds_ ," a voice muttered, with the garbled, broken quality of one speaking to themselves. " _Senseless are the wizards who are not wary._ "

He followed the voice, trying not to disrupt the thick layer of dust on the floor. A book tried to leap off the shelf at him but was restrained by the spells on the place.

" _Stupid manchild, foolish nestling. You discovers nothing when you know nothing to discovers_."

Harry noted, then, the faint hiss beneath the words, and he began searching for the snake. It continued its admonishments in broken sentences. It was in the U section, not the S's as he's begun to believe, that he found it, not a snake in truth but a relief of one on the binding of a book.

" _Ugly, stupid human, staring now as you are. Manchild shall touch me and snakeling will bite. Manchild will never have chances to scream_."

" _Actually, I don't plan on doing any such thing."_

The next hiss was louder and somehow angry. " _Another Speakers, another thinking to be better than snakelings."_

"Another, hmm?" Harry wondered if it was his father she spoke of, or perhaps his father's grandfather. " _What is in your pages?"_

It did not respond, just hissing more allegations and insults. He left it as it was, curious but not quite Gryffindor enough to touch it. He cast a few detection spells on its binding, but there were several spells he had never heard of on it, and several more he did and did not wish to tangle with. Perhaps Barty would know or, barring that, over the summer he could ask his father if he had found the book as well.

Harry stopped focusing on the distracting snake and made his way back to the B's for binding spells. Some of the titles were truly horrifying, even to him, and some of the enchantments on the books themselves were ghastly. One seemed to hold at least the illusion of a trapped child, sobbing quietly around nursery rhymes. Another, proudly titled Ensnarement: Bending the Human Mind, sang softly like a siren, pulling Harry's attention even as he tried to find a book on the subject he was there for.

When he saw one with a promising title ( _Objuration & Colligation_) and cast a few detection spells on its spine, removing an old, weak compulsion and a still moderately strong pain hex before pulling it down. A quick Tempus revealed it was nearly curfew, so Harry made sure his cloak was around him and slipped back into the library proper.

He snuck past a group of Ravenclaw seventh years and some Slytherin second years, finding an ill-used corner to remove his cloak. He wrapped his book in it and awkwardly pinned it under his armpit. He made his way to the proper sections and chose Charms and Transfigurations texts, one each, that he thought would help on his essays, placing the invisible book atop them as he skirted by Madame Pince who glared over her spectacles. She tapped the two visible books with her wand and he left, rushing back for the Fat Lady's portrait.

* * *

"I heard that Beauxbatons girls were like Veelas," said Seamus, eyes wide. Ron made a scoffing noise in his throat, but Dean and Neville both turned to listen.

Harry sighed and poked at his Yorkshire pudding, pushing a bit of it back and forth across the gravy river he had constructed. A piece of roast beef toppled from its mountain, damming up the river. Many citizens of Roastopia died in the ensuing flood.

"I'm serious, Ron! The school is more than two-thirds girls, they say, and so many of the French come from Veela lines that it is just a sea of beautiful blonde girls, lots of 'em lonely since there aren't enough boys around for them all."

"Do ya…" Neville cut off, looking pink and choked. He'd gained some confidence after the events first week with Moody and had been talking more, though Harry couldn't fathom why. "Do ya think they sometimes are with, erm, each other?" The last word was a squeak, and the color that flooded Neville's cheeks was luminescent.

Unfortunately for Neville, he'd chosen the moment Hermione had sat down to join them. "Neville, I'm surprised at you! What a crass question to ask," she said with horror, hugging her book to her chest.

Harry snorted, finally looking up from where he had started a colony of peas at the head of Roastopia's dam. "What's wrong with it? It's immature, yeah, but the question itself is just a question. This is Neville," with this, he waved a hand at the mortified boy, "he couldn't be vulgar if he tried."

The boy looked as if he didn't know whether to be complimented or insulted. Harry wasn't sure which he should be, either. Harry let his attention wander and flicked his eyes across the hall at the other house tables. Maybe he should have tried to bully himself into Ravenclaw rather than put up with Gryffindors. Roger Davies, a very good looking sixth year, met his eyes then and Harry sent him a coy smirk, which the boy blushingly returned. Hmm. Interesting.

"Harry's right," Ron said with a nod. "And blimey, can you picture it?"

Hermione looked totally incensed, though Harry wondered if that was due to some kind of odd muggle beliefs or Ron's smarmy grin. Though some of the oldest families still stuck rigidly by arranged marriages and passing one's genes down through childbirth, with blood adoption as an option that also gave new blood into a line, it was no longer completely ghastly to not marry or to wind up with someone of your own gender.

They continued their bickering even as dessert added itself along the table, and Seamus, Dean, and Neville scooted closer towards Harry and away from the two.

"R-remind me to never talk when Hermione is around ever again," Neville moaned, face in his hands.

Dean patted his shoulder, "There, there, mate. A woman's wrath is super scary… or something."

Seamus leaned over Harry's shoulder, staring at the war between the Peas and the Carrots in the dry bed formed by the beef-dam's creation. "Harry, what in the hell are you doing?"

"Directing civilization," he muttered, knocking several carrots off of the roast mountain into the deep pool of gravy. "Peas are the conquerors."

"You know you're really weird sometimes, don't you Harry?" Dean asked with quivering lips.

"The Killing Curse to the head addled his brains," said Seamus.

"Hah bloody hah," he said dully. "Right, well, any other insights into the schools, or should I just take off to my detention with Snape? They get here tomorrow, after all."

Seamus shrugged. "Not really. Durmstrang is supposed to be full of Dark wizards. Not sure what a Dark gal would look like, but I imagine she'd have wicked jabs. What d'you think, Har? Goodie-goodie Beauxbatons girls or the bad girls from Durmstrang?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "The one with a cock."

Neville and Seamus began choking in unison and Harry just chuckled, shouldering his bag and snatching a chunk of Parkin cake from a dish. As he made it to the doors of the Hall he heard a spluttered, "What?" in what was unmistakably Ron Weasley's voice

* * *

"I do not hear scrubbing, Mister Potter," Snape drawled, irking Harry yet more. He did not rise to the bait.

He'd been in here for three hours already, with what had to be the world's smallest scrub brush and the long untended flagstones of the Potion's classroom floor.

If Snape had not been hovering over him, he could have set the brush to scrubbing on its own, which would have at least given the impression he had done the work, but the bat was lounging comfortably at his desk, stack of essays at hand, watching Harry's every move through the lank curtain of his hair. Harry, incongruously and with no small amount of disbelief, felt a moment of deep pity for the man.

It couldn't be easy, after all, living life as a production. Harry wondered when the last time the man had even been himself was. No matter who his real Master was, whether it was Harry's father or Albus Dumbledore, Snape's life was a song and dance routine. Harry refused to imagine what his life would be like past this year if he survived.

With that thought, he stopped his petulant glaring through his fringe and scrubbed away at the stones, thinking of the next evening. The other schools would be arriving and the plan would be set in motion Monday night. To be technical, he could simply invite his father and his servants in now and have all be done… but his father had a flair for the dramatic. Not only did he want maximum exposure, but the boon of having the Ministers of the three greatest European powers in one place the night of the final task, not even counting however many other politicians from the continent, was too great a chance to ignore by striking too soon.

People would be coming from far and wide, and all of them would have front row seats to the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort. It would be a performance like no other.

He wondered what life would be like once he was revealed to the world. Harry could hardly imagine. Foolishly, childishly, he hoped it meant he could finally form proper relationships with others. Constantly hiding such huge parts of who he was meant that he really didn't have anyone who… saw him. Knew him. He had his father, of course, but Voldemort was hardly paternal. He was possessive and loved Harry, he had no doubt, but he was unable to demonstrate it. Harry understood; the life his father had led could very well have been his own if Voldemort had never come across the Dursleys. As it was, their formative years were near carbon copies of one another.

He glanced up at Snape again as he scrubbed, the man's thin lips flattened in an agitated line as he struck out at an apparently disagreeable assignment. From what he knew from his father, the man's childhood, too, was rather similar to theirs. Was that at the core of his hate, his bitterness? Or was it the years spent in service to Harry's admittedly cruel father, then the even more dastardly Dumbledore? What had caused his shift in allegiances, anyway?

Black eyes, glittering with malice, peered over the parchment he was rolling up, catching Harry as he stared. "Are you intending to be here all evening, Potter? I have been very _kind_ in allowing you to leave once you have completed your task, perhaps you should swallow down your foolish pride and just finish your task."

He reigned in his anger and resumed his scrubbing, trying his damndest not the rise to the bait. There would be a time for that, but it wasn't now. The next night the other schools would arrive, and the night after would be the drawing of the names. Then it would only be a matter of time… just a matter of time.

Some days, the wish to spill his mind, to verbally eviscerate the man before him, was nearly irresistible. But no… he needed information first. If he was going to break and completely explode at the man, he needed to be able to hit Snape where it hurt most, dig under his greasy, sallow skin to the meat of him and rend him piece by piece emotionally. He was a very determined child, his father had always said.

He hid a smirk by ducking his head. He hoped he was there to see Snape's face when the world came crashing down around him.

* * *

"But did you see her, mate?" Ron was nearly swooning, and Hermione's face was a study in rage. Harry tried not to let his irritation show.

"Yes, Ron. We all saw her."

"She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. To even get her to look at me-"

Hermione slammed down her book on the common room table and stormed away, leaving Ron to blink owlishly. "Erm… what's wrong with her?"

Harry closed his eyes and sighed. He didn't have the patience for Gryffindors right now. "Dunno, mate."

Ron eyed him with a wary look. "C'mon, you're a poof, you should know."

Harry was surprised by how instantly accepting Ron had been since his crack during lunch the day before; if anyone was going to overreact and ostracize Harry, he'd have thought it to be Ron. He'd been shocked, of course, but the redhead's irrational temper had never even shown itself for even a moment about this. "Know _what_?"

Ron cringed and squirmed. "What made 'Mione all pissy. Isn't that, like, part of being gay?"

"Ron, gay or no, I'm still a guy. I'll never understand women."

Ron nodded and sighed, propping his head on a hand. "Was afraid you'd say that. Damn. There go my hopes."

"Why don't we finish up so we can get down to the Great Hall? The names should be pulled from the Goblet soon."

"Blimey, I wish I could be chosen," he said with a long sigh. "The fame, the money…" blue eyes narrowed and Harry stiffened. "You'd know all about that."

Harry blinked, feeling oddly hurt by the narrow, bitter look on Ron's face. Hadn't he just been thinking about Ron's irrationality? "Huh?"

"Don't even start," Ron said grumpily, turning away. "You've got everything, mate, and you know it. Everything a bloke could possibly want all around you, and where does that leave the rest of us, huh?"

Harry stood then, turning away in irritation. "Says the guy whose parents aren't dead."

Ron flinched momentarily, but then the red was creeping up from his neck and he was glaring obstinately at Harry. "Oh, poor orphan Potter. Gonna throw that in my face now?"

"Throw it in your face?" Harry gaped. "You're the one 'round the bend!"

Ron was on his feet as well now, toe to toe with Harry and shaking. He tried to ignore how the entire common room, full so near the feast, was watching them with wide, stunned eyes. "You're such a stuck-up… jerk!" Ron bellowed, fists clenching. "You roll around in your millions of galleons, people falling all over themselves to give you whatever you want. Then you look at Hermione and me with all that… _expecting_ you have like there's no reason why we wouldn't want to sit in your bloody shadow forever!"

"I never asked for this!" he bellowed, failing to keep his control firm on his magic. Ron flinched back as the electric presence of Harry's anger presented itself, and Harry sneered. "And I don't expect anything from you! If you don't want anything to do with me, then bugger off!"

He stormed out of the tower then, knocking the Fat Lady so hard in her frame that she squawked and fell into the portrait beside her. A group of second years scattered with terrified shrieks as he snarled at them, a hand planting on the banister so he could level himself over it and drop the two flights down from there. He shot a spell at the ground to slow his descent and continued on, temper whipping his magic around him. The landing jarred the bones in his legs hard and he knew it would hurt the next day.

It wasn't like he gave a damn what Ron thought, he told himself. It wasn't. But… he was such a prat! He'd done nothing to deserve the accusations, not yet at least. There was no telling how vile Ron would end up being come tomorrow, and Harry took this moment as a test for his resolve. Could he handle being ostracized entirely? Could he take the rage, censor his first instinct to snap out harsh words, and just play Boy-Who-Lived through it all, scared and reluctant?

He nearly barreled into another person as he flipped around a corner, and gnarled hands settled on his should. "You alright, lad?" Moody's gruff voice asked, eyes narrowed on Harry's.

He relaxed into Barty's hold and breathed deeply, trying to rid himself of the anger. It wouldn't do to go into a tizzy whenever someone insulted him. It was just… despite it all, despite the annoyance and the lies and the frustration, Ron and Hermione really were the closest things to friends he'd ever had. If they could turn on him even with his best, innocent, Gryffindor face on…

Moody's fingers were rough and his face made Harry recoil, but as Barty tipped up Harry's face and began to speak, Harry closed his eyes and imagined there was no Polyjuice involved. "I know yeh weren't getting hurt, but I was concerned by your anger there, Young Lord," he muttered quietly, nearly under his breath. "Is everything all right?"

The concern touched him, and he sagged just a little more. "Yes, I think I'm all right now. I just had a moment. I hate Halloween."

The grunt that came from Moody then made Harry think he wasn't very convincing, but the hands released him nonetheless. "We've got big things we're heading for here, lad. Shall we head on?"

Harry hadn't opened his eyes yet and found himself gripping Barty's forearm, senses on his surroundings in case anyone approached, just relishing in the man's presence. He melted just a little when the man gave a little huff that he always did when he smiled and a hand gripped his shoulder strongly.

"Only a matter of waiting now, Young Lord," he murmured. "Let's go watch everything take shape."

He opened his eyes and smiled at the man, disguised or no, and nodded firmly. "So we should. Shall I go ahead?"

"Would be best. Obviously no one else knows you've spent nearly every night of term in my quarters, and it wouldn't do to bring suspicion on why we're chummy."

Harry snorted and nodded, released Barty, and swept away without another word. There was more traffic on the more main cooridors; it seemed everyone was on their way to the Great Hall now. Harry flicked a quick Tempus when he noted this, and he saw that it was only fifteen minutes to the ceremony. He shivered in anticipation, biting down a grim smile.

Any wish to smile fell as soon as he walked through the doors to the hall, scanning the staff table. His eyes zeroed in on an unexpected face and he froze, the stream of people entering parting around him as he fought to move. Only the thought of Barty on his way to this very room got him moving, and Harry spun and ducked back out the doors with as little notice as he could manage, racing right back the way he came.

Moody's visage had made it to the throng of people, however, so Harry could only try to meet his eyes. That part was easy, but inconspicuously pulling the man away was a bit harder. They managed to duck into a small alcove beneath one of the grand stairs near the entrance hall, and Harry whispered that Barty should put up one of the localized silencing barriers he had been teaching him. He just wasn't stable enough with them yet and didn't want to risk anything.

When Barty did so, Harry kept his eyes on the man. "Barty, I think you should claim sickness and go back to your rooms."

Moody's gnarled face contorted comically as Barty raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Harry swallowed and grimaced. "Your- your father is in the castle."

Barty froze, face and body still, magical eye spinning more madly than ever in its socket. Then Barty's tongue was flicking out against his lips rhythmically, breathing accelerating at a speed that worried Harry. "I see."

"Barty… what are you thinking?"

Both the magical eye and the dark, scarred human one pinned him and Moody's teeth bared. "Of how best to kill him slowly, of course."

He'd been afraid of this. "No, Barty. You can't. Not now, not when so much is on the line. You need to go to your rooms and play ill, avoid being anywhere near him, and keep yourself in check."

The man snarled; it was a truly frightening expression on Moody's gnarled face. "I am not a child to be minded. The man needs to _die_ , Harry. He locked me in my room, mindless, helpless. He stripped my knowledge from me, my passion, _my Lord_. He—he—!"

Harry gripped him as he jerked, tongue flicking out once more as he fumbled for his flask and took a deep draft. Harry wished that it really was alcohol to steady him.

"Barty, this is an order." He didn't want to stoop to this, but he would rather have his companion and cohort unharmed and free. "Go to your rooms, stay there until I fetch you. Now."

"Why?" he whispered, and Harry cringed at the desperate tone.

"Because if you're found out, it's the Kiss for you. I need you here; please do not force my hand in this."

The man continued staring and he nodded with a jerk. "As you wish, m'Lord."

Harry had spent half his life groomed for Lordship beside his father, but Barty's sudden stiff subservience felt like a slap to the face. The man spun on his heel and slashed his wand out, taking down the silencing barrier and stomping away, the reverberating thump of his wooden leg ringing out for long minutes after he was gone. Harry pressed a hand to his chest and wondered at the ache there.

He shook his head and noted the time after a quick Tempus, running for the Great Hall and entering just as Dumbledore rose with a pleasant smile. "Welcome, young minds of Europe. We gather here with a new and fantastic journey before us: the Tri-Wizard Tournament. It is a dangerous competition, to be sure, but also a waiting adventure for both the participants and the spectators." With a dramatic flair, Dumbledore swooped his wand around his head and all the lights in the Great Hall extinguished but for those in the charmed Jack-o-Lanterns.

Some of the younger students made muffled screeching noises, but they quieted down quickly as Dumbledore strolled forward to be illuminated by the odd blue-white fire of the Goblet. It shone like a tiny, captured star there on its pedestal, and Harry felt a chill of thrilled anticipation.

As Dumbledore summoned out the name of the Durmstrang Champion (Viktor Krum, of course) Harry peered at his classmates. He wondered who it would be that would be the Hogwarts' chosen.

After the expected result from Beauxbatons (Ron's crush, Floor or whatever her name was) Harry felt the same anticipation thrum through him that was making every Hogwarts student sit on the edge of their seat. Would it be Montgomery from Slytherin, who was vaguely the same size as Draco's lackeys but corded and thick with muscle? Or would it be Diggory from Hufflepuff, pretty and liked by all of his year? How would the school react when Harry was chosen as the fourth champion from no school at all?

"And the Hogwarts Champion will be-" Dumbledore stopped suddenly, giddy smile dropping from his face. Harry felt his stomach plummet. What- "Harry Potter?"

"Oh, bloody buggering hell," Harry moaned, face falling into his hands.

* * *

He crept beneath his invisibility cloak, testing his hold on a small, self-anchored silencing ward that centered on his body. He wasn't likely to go looking for Filch to see if he'd mastered it, though, so he would just have to be sneaky regardless and hope for the best.

The suit of armor that guarded Barty's quarters seemed to sense his urgency, despite not being able to see him, and quickly caused the door to swing inward to allow Harry in. He ripped off his invisibility cloak in the cobweb-cloaked front entry and tossed it aside as he strode into the main chamber.

Barty was in one of the wingback chairs before the fire, fingers steepled beneath his chin and his eyes on the flames. Harry paused and felt tension drain from him as he examined the man's profile; he was disturbed to note how important Barty had come to be to him in the last two months, but only took comfort in it nonetheless. Barty's sharp jaw was vibrating with tension and his nostrils were flared, but he did not turn to look at Harry.

A deep well of regret opened in Harry as he hesitantly stepped forward. "Barty?"

"Yes, m'Lord?" replied Barty, hardly moving his lips.

Harry cringed. When Barty called him Young Lord it felt like an affectionate nickname, but this was toneless and dull, forced. "Please don't do this."

"And just what is ' _this_ '?" Barty barked out, head snapping to the left to meet Harry's eyes before he seemed to grab the reigns of his own madness and lowered them subserviently. "I am at your service. Is there something you need? If not, I find myself tired."

"I'm sorry, Bartemius. I'm sorry I couldn't just let you kill him when he deserves it so much. But that was just too public, and I don't want to lose you being here at the school, let alone your life."

"My deepest regrets, my Lord. I should not have tried to take action; my place is here serving you."

Harry made a sound of disagreement in his throat and found himself on his knees beside Barty's chair, forcing the man to look at his face rather than his shoes. "Barty, please. I didn't mean to disappoint you so, but I want you… I want you here for _me_. I don't know how I managed without someone here who knew me, but I don't want to suddenly go back to that. You're well, you're my friend, aren't you?"

The words seemed to pause whatever rejoinder the man had, and he froze, eyes flicking all over Harry's face. He tried not to squirm under the scrutiny.

"Your father will likely be here all through the year as the tasks go on; can't we make a plan for later? Some time when he'll be alone, not in the Great Hall with hundreds of witnesses and Dumbledore."

Barty's fingers were on his face, digging into him and tipping him back uncomfortably. His eyes were alight with magic and rage. "I cannot stand to know he _lives_ , Harry. I need that man dead before I can even fathom anything beyond that! He sentenced me to so much worse than Azkaban, so much worse than death. Do you not see?"

"Of course I see!" he said, swallowing as the fingers on his face pressed harder. "I know, Barty, I know. And I would love nothing more than to give you that vile man on a plate, but I _can't_. You are too important to the Dark, too important in this plot we have going, too important to me! There will be other opportunities!"

The hand dropped then and Barty went limp, face colliding with the arm of the chair and peering at Harry through his fringe. "I can't do this, Harry. I cannot. He must die!"

"He will, he will," cooed Harry, tentatively reaching out to stroke Barty's hair as the man's tongue flicked against his lips. "He will die and it will be glorious… it just _cannot be tonight_. I am sorry."

Barty was muttering under his breath in despair, and Harry could make out only a handful of words in the speech. He stroked Barty and let him lose himself, alternatively looking near tears and looking near cursing. Harry's knees hurt against the stone of the floor, but he stayed there beside the man as his angry murmurs changed tone from harsh and sad to higher, hopeful. Harry heard various babbled compliments about himself and his father and knew Barty had made some kind of decision.

He stood, trying to pull the man upright, but Barty seemed to snap out of wherever his mind had been and ended up in a great heap on the floor, tangled in Moody's oversized robes he still wore. Harry sighed; this was not the first time he'd lost Barty within the man's own brilliant, addled mind.

He heaved the larger man up and leaned him against his shoulder, guiding him towards the bedroom. News of the complication in their plans could wait; Barty needed rest now. He waved his wand to transfigure Barty's robes into pajamas and levered him into his bed, pulling up the covers. "Shh," Harry said softly. "All will be better tomorrow."

Hands shot up and cupped his face between them, jerking him painfully though the hold remained light. Barty peered at him, silent, searching him with maddened eyes for long moments.

"Yes," whispered Barty, releasing him. "Yes, it will be."

And then he was sleeping and Harry was moving back for the entrance, resisting any half-formed ideas of crawling into bed with the man and making his way back to Gryffindor tower.


	4. Truth hurts - not the searching after; the running from!  ~John Eyberg

_Harry –_

_I have to say that I'm disappointed you didn't write me about the Tri-Wizard Tournament! My godson, the Hogwarts Champion! James would be over the moon, Harry, and I am too. Damn good job, Prongslet. However did you manage it? What a coup! Ignore the papers; you know they're just trying to get to you. I know none of that crap about your being attention seeking and using a Dark spell to Confound the Goblet of Fire could be true. Rubbish, that!_

_I'm writing, though, to set up a time to meet up. I've been getting a bit antsy in the Muggle world, so I'm coming for a visit! Are you excited? Next Hogsmeade weekend, right before the first task, I'll meet you behind_ _Dervish and Banges on High Street. Be there, we've got a lot to catch up on!_

_Sirius_

Harry let go of the parchment to allow it to pop back into its rolled form, tucking the letter away in his inner breast pocket. It had been two weeks since Halloween and life at Hogwarts had been a trial, to be sure. He hadn't even thought to write to Sirius, but he couldn't find it in him to feel guilty for forgetting.

"Is that from Sirius?" Hermione breathed beside him, peering at him through a tuft of her hair.

"Yeah," he said, going back to his toast. "He wants to meet up in Hogsmeade this coming weekend."

Hermione's lips pursed and she squinted at him. "He's reckless. He shouldn't be anywhere near British Magical communities!"

Harry grunted in agreement and snatched a piece of bacon as he stood. "I know. But it's too late to get him an owl now to remind him of that, so I guess we'll just have to go along with it." He stopped halfway to the Great Hall doors, meeting Hermione's eyes. "Erm… you'll come with me, won't you?"

She had been drawn these last days, frowning more than she smiled and burying herself even deeper into her books than usual. The rift between them and Ron was wearing on her. She smiled at his hesitance, though, and placed a hand on his elbow. "Of course I will, Harry. I'm here for you."

He pressed his fingertips to the back of her hand and smiled momentarily, then pulled away. "Right, we've got Defense to get to… shall we?"

A booming, fake laugh came from behind him and he saw Hermione's frown turn tense as she glanced back at Ron. He could see how much this was affecting her and put his hand on the small of her back, leading her away.

"C'mon, no use dwelling."

She frowned at him as they made their way to the classroom. "Don't you care at all? You've been so stoic about how he's been acting… he's been so terrible, but it's like you aren't even affected!"

They slipped into the classroom fifteen minutes before class would start, the first to arrive. He sat in their usual spot in the center of the room and just one row back from the front. He loved Defense. "Of course I care," he said finally, sighing. "He's being a right berk about all this, and I hate it. He won't listen to a word I say about not having put my name in the Goblet, he's convinced I did it for glory. But I don't know what to do about it," he finished lamely but honestly.

She leaned on his shoulder and gripped his forearm between both hands, sighing. "He'll come around, I just know it. I have to believe that. Who else do I have but you and Ron?"

He was saved from a response by the rhythmic thunking of Moody's wooden leg preceding him into the room, though he did not pull away. She seemed to draw comfort from the position and he let her.

He smiled to Barty over her head as he entered, though Moody's brow lifted in an incredulous expression. Harry squirmed internally at the look and his own reluctance to make Hermione move away, but externally just lifted his other shoulder in a small shrug.

His being chosen as the primary Hogwarts Champion had complicated things for Harry. The plans themselves were fine and untouched by this, but Harry himself had a new set of troubles to go with everything. For one thing, his skill levels were being called into question, since the Goblet had chosen him from amongst dozens of other applicants as the best representative of Hogwarts. For another, his every move was being watched very closely and by all sides. Professors watched him with narrowed eyes during lessons, his Gryffindor housemates were in turn betrayed and exalted to have him as Champion and watched to see how he would handle it, and the Slytherins were obviously trying to find a way to use this situation against him or prove he had purposefully placed his name into the Goblet.

Barty postulated that, somehow, the Goblet had decided he was truly the best choice. The Confounding of the Goblet was supposed to make it think he was from a fourth school, but somehow it seemed that had gone awry. Harry couldn't help the bit of pride he felt, though, that he was more qualified to be Champion than any of the seventh years.

Hermione sat up as other students began filing into the classroom, and Harry settled back in his seat as Barty began pacing at the front of the room, magical eye watching them all take their seats. Harry's mind drifted as he waited, automatically shifting over as Neville nervously took the seat beside him.

"Today we're covering situations where you can and cannot counter hexes and curses," Moody's voice sounded without preamble. He barked out a page number for everyone to flip to and Harry's fingers followed on autopilot.

"Potter!"

Harry snapped out of his reverie, meeting the wildly spinning magical eye of Mad-Eye Moody. How long had he been daydreaming?

"Yes, Professor?"

The human eye twitched, and Harry knew that it was not only him that was still torn between amused and horrified by their interactions in this body. "What did I just say about Bone-Shattering Hexes?"

He honestly hadn't been paying proper attention; his mind kept drifting to fantasies conjured by walking in on Barty only half-dressed and still dripping from the shower the night before. Merlin, but how he'd wanted to trace every drop from the man's freckled shoulders to the waistline of his trousers…

"Potter!"

Harry gave an apologetic grin, ruffling his hair with one hand. "Erm, sorry Professor."

"Detention with me, boy!"

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs and his fellow Gryffindors snickered at him, which blackened Harry's mood a bit. He forced on a conciliatory look. "I'm sorry Professor, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" So near the front no one but Barty really saw the lascivious smirk that stretched his lips.

Barty twitched violently then, nearly missing a step as he trundled back to the front of the class. Harry grinned when he whipped Moody's face around to stare at him.

"There isn't a counter-curse for a Bone-Shattering Hex," he answered, ignoring Harry's simpering tone. "When it comes to destructive spells, you can only heal the damage done or stop it from happening in the first place. CONSTANT VIGILANCE _,"_ he bellowed,thrusting out his wand with a projected _bang!_ that echoed from a far corner of the classroom. Moody's wand was twirling through the air then as he nonverbally summoned and transfigured various objects while simultaneously keeping them levitating in a row as he added and created more objects to join the line.

Harry perked up as he watched. He hadn't really consciously thought of it before, but Barty was probably, after his father, the most brilliant man he'd ever met. He'd dropped out of school in his seventh year to join the Dark Lord, never completing his NEWTS. Then, before he was even twenty, he'd been arrested in thrown in Azkaban. Though he'd only spent a year or two there, he'd then been under his father's Imperius for the rest of his adult life.

To the average student in this class, they were seeing a man in his seventies, experienced in all walks of life and battle-worn. But Harry saw through the scars and the matted, grizzled hair. He could see the striking thirty-something Ravenclaw who had so much knowledge swirling around his mind that he _could_ pass for someone with several times his bare few years of magical experience. It was no wonder that he was a favorite of the Dark Lord.

As he continued talking, Harry closed his eyes and imagined it was actually Barty at the front of the class. That he didn't have to hide. When Harry's father took over the Wizarding world, he wondered if he could convince Barty to come back and teach, because he really was brilliant at it.

"POTTER!"

Harry opened his eyes slowly and met Moody's magical eye, and he couldn't help the soft, fond smile that spread across his lips. Moody's chest jerked as Barty's breathing hitched. "Yes, Professor?"

Barty stared at him for a long moment, long enough for the class to begin shifting in their seats. Hermione hissed something to him under her breath, but Harry couldn't hear what she'd said, too busy being unable to force down the smile that still played over his lips.

The gnarled visage of Moody finally turned away, though Harry could still hear the man's breathing. "Get outta here, all of you. Class dismissed."

Harry tried to lag behind to apologize to Barty, but Hermione led him out in the crush of excited students. "What did you do, Harry? I've never seen Professor Moody act so oddly, and that's saying something!"

He shrugged, trying for unaffected. His heart was still pounding rapidly beneath his ribs, though he was damned if he could understand why. "Dunno, one second he looked like he was gonna call me out for daydreaming again, the next he looked a bit ill. Think he's not feeling well?"

She hummed noncommittally but frowned, obviously still pondering it. Harry dodged around Ron, Dean, and Seamus where they were hanging back, obviously trying to avoid moving early towards the dungeons for Potions. Harry flicked his wand with a muttered _Tempus_ to see there was nearly an hour until the next class.

Hermione noted his spell and her eyes brightened. "Oh, this is the perfect time for me to return a few books I finished up with last night. Do you want to come to the library with me?"

Harry shook his head. "No thanks, you go on ahead. I'll see you in class."

She paused with a torn look before nodding and bolting off, soles of her shoes clacking against the stone floor of the corridor. He found himself alone there, even his dormmates having slowly made their way away, and his feet took him back towards the Defense classroom door.

He knocked as he pushed it back open. "Professor?"

Barty was waving his wand around sending the various items he had transfigured for examples of curse blocking and redirection skittering back to their places on the shelves. He stiffened a bit when Harry called to him.

"Yes, Potter?"

Harry bit his lip. "Is… is everything all right? I didn't mean to make you angry."

Barty peeked back over his shoulder and his shoulders sagged for a moment in a sigh. "Aye, all is fine, Harry. Get on with you; I'm just an old fool."

"You're hardly old," Harry muttered with a roll of his eyes.

"Old enough to know better," said Barty, a cryptic smile on his face. "Off you go, Potter."

Harry frowned as he started off towards the dungeons, trying to put together just what in the world Barty could possibly be on about.

* * *

"You lost, Potter?"

Harry closed his eyes as the voice came from behind him, trying not to curse. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Malfoy was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, as per usual, though there was the unusual addition of the pretty Daphne Greengrass trailing right behind them, lacquered nails obvious as she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Harry eyed them all warily.

"You're the lion lost in the snake's den, Potter. You should be careful being all alone down here," sneered Malfoy, magically whitened, straight teeth clacking together threateningly. "I know the Weasel's abandoned you, but have you even managed to turn off the Mudblood? Really? I didn't think you were quite _so_ abhorrent."

"That's nearly a compliment coming from you," Harry said dryly.

Malfoy puffed up. "You should, of course, feel flattered."

Harry rolled his wand between his fingertips, not feeling particularly threatened but not willing to put his wand away faced with such uneven odds. "I'm sure." He leaned back against the wall in an attempt to look relaxed. "Anyway, I'm not eager to run ahead into Potions but I'm also not really willing to sit here and play 'Witty Banter Fun Time' with you either, Malfoy. So hey, run along, would you?"

The boy's eyebrow twitched. "Who in the hell are you to tell me what to do?"

Harry closed his eyes after looking in both directions to confirm the hall was clear, a slow, smarmy grin stretching his lips. "Wouldn't you like to know."

For all Harry's irritation with Malfoy, the boy wasn't stupid. In fact, for all his posturing and general idiocy, Harry had spied those moments of real observation from the boy, the shrewd, pointed moments where he noticed things no one else did. The subtext beneath Harry's dismissal was caught, he knew, and he smiled yet wider.

The Slytherins moved on without another word, Malfoy hushing Goyle when he tried to raise a question.

Snape stalked down the corridor soon after, and Harry darted into the Potions classroom ahead of him. He smiled at a Beauxbatons girl with an empty seat beside her and she blushed prettily when he sat beside her. "'ow are you, 'Arry?" the girl said, and Harry felt a bit bad that he couldn't remember her name though this was the fourth time they'd shared a Potions desk. She was willowy and delicate-featured like nearly all the girls from her school, her hair fine and straight and cropped at her shoulders.

"Not bad, just trying to keep sane in preparation for the Task next week."

She darted her eyes to the Slytherin side of the room where Malfoy was being fawned over by two other girls from Beauxbatons. She looked wary and spoke quietly. "My friend, she 'as been seeing Monsieur Malfoy for a week now. She 'eard that the Task is some sort of beast and that they were 'ere already. Monsieur's father took 'im to see them. 'E has not said what they are; Monsieur enjoys stringing us along too much, but it was implied that they were _dragons_."

He sucked in a breath and met her eyes sharply. "Are you certain?"

"Oui," she said with a decisive nod. "As sure as I can be."

Harry's mind raced and he touched the back of the girl's hand with his fingers. "Thank you."

She smiled. "Celestine, 'Arry."

"Thanks yet again," he said with a self-depreciating laugh. "I'm sorry I'm so shite at remembering."

She shook her head, her light brown hair fluttering around her face. "Ne t'inquiète pas, do not worry. You 'ave many other things on your mind."

Snape barked out a page number then, pulling his attention back to the front of the room. The man's eyes lingered on him as he quietly instructed Celestine on what ingredients to start preparing. Harry met the man's gaze with all the arrogance the man accused him of, only happy when those black eyes finally flicked away.

* * *

"Well, it isn't like I can just cast a Disemboweling curse on it; I'm the Golden Boy, remember?" He peered through his fringe at Barty, who was nearly upside-down in his armchair. "I think that killing the dragon with a Dark curse would be frowned upon."

 _Dragons_. Harry paced in agitation across the space in front of the fire, arms twined behind his back. The task itself was not difficult, but keeping to his public persona added an entire dimension to it that was maddening.

"Have you considered poison?" Harry shivered as Barty threw that manic, careless grin. "Slip it a little something before the match, make sure you have an easy time…"

"That would require knowing which dragon I'd get. No way to tell, is there?" Harry sighed and sat abruptly where he stood, leaning against Barty's chair. With the angle Barty had slid down the chair, their shoulders bumped. Harry tried not to dart his eyes towards his companion obviously, feeling abnormally shy. "I'd rather not give my opponents an advantage, too, by poisoning all of them. Hmm. Do you think I could get away with boiling its blood? Not externally noticeable, might distract it long enough for me to get past it. Or maybe a weak innard-liquefaction curse, something that will cause it pain and not be traced back to me, since it would take weeks to kill the beast?"

At the mad chuckle, Harry couldn't help but turn his head, meeting that heat-inducing grin. "You're wicked, Harry. I _love_ it. Would that I could have known so much at fourteen." Barty sighed wistfully, flicking out his tongue to his lips.

Harry snorted. "With my father, what would you expect? Though, to be fair, I have no idea of my mental and physical age. Chronologically I'm fourteen, yes, but with the heavy Time-Turner use in my younger years, I lost track of how many years I've actually lived."

Barty slid farther in the chair, snaking his head over Harry's shoulder. "Oh?" He was always rapt when Harry spoke of his childhood and of his Lord.

"The Dark Lord did a lot of research when I was quite young. He was able to figure out without a doubt that one's place on the Hogwarts Roster is placed the moment a new child with a developed magical core is born. This was important, obviously, since all our plans would have been for nothing if I was considered age eleven and called to Hogwarts several years before I chronologically should have been."

"My Lord is so brilliant," Barty cooed, resting his head on Harry's shoulder, shivering and snickering. Harry glanced at him fondly.

"So anyway, yes, while according to Hogwarts, my birth date, and Ministry law I am fourteen and a few months, I'm assuming I have at least a year or more on top of that in experience. Father wanted me fully prepared in etiquette, first year skills, Occlumency, core subjects, and the Dark Arts before I ever got under Dumbledore's influence. Since I couldn't begin real training until I was nearly ten, that wouldn't have left nearly enough time." Harry grinned and shrugged, making Barty grumble from where he was still resting. "My father is thorough, after all."

Harry suppressed a giggle as Barty burrowed into his shoulder, cooing compliments towards his Lord, lost in his own world. This happened often enough that Harry was more than used to it. It was endearing. His companion had twisted himself into a near knot by now, and Harry prepared to help right him when he inevitably tumbled out of the massive labyrinth of his own mind.

It happened even more quickly than usual, and with a fair bit more grace than the undignified heap Barty usually ended up in. He spun those long, long legs and settled himself properly in the chair, one arm jerking Harry around to face him. He grinned wildly at the surprise on Harry's face, leaning in so close that Harry had to force his eyes not to flutter shut of their own accord.

"You're a puzzle, Harry," he murmured, leaning in and pressing his nose to Harry's cheek. "I want to solve it."

His eyes did shut then, and he shivered forcefully. Light breaths fanned over his ear and, as Barty talked, lips grazed his jaw.

"I'd just love to pluck out all your pieces, luv, gather them to me like jewels. I want to seek your ins and outs, the dark corners that you tuck away. Can I solve you?"

Harry's breathing hitched and he felt light-headed. This man always seemed to manage to throw him, knock him off kilter. ' _Just a crush, just a crush, just a crush_ ,' chanted Harry, trying not to give in to the urge to sway forward. He was a sixteen year old wizard, give or take a year, it was perfectly normal for him to get a crush on a man he found so powerfully physically attractive and who was so intellectually compatible with him. Just a crush. He could ignore a crush, get over a crush.

Barty snickered against his jaw and Harry nearly groaned.

Just as Harry thought that he'd go mad from wanting and grab the man, finally bury his fingers in the man's hair and yank him to him, Barty leaned back, releasing Harry entirely, sitting back and crossing his legs primly. "Well, back on topic. What would Harry Potter do, do you think?"

Harry couldn't help but gape, jaw working without purpose, staring in stunned disappointment. Not that Barty noticed, already engrossed in plotting again as he was. Harry sighed and put his head in his hands, huffing out a laugh. It was that madcap brilliance that drew him, after all, and that made him need to keep reminding himself that this was _just a crush_ and he needed to get over it.

"Harry Potter, as the world knows him, is an ignominious twat who knows about three spells and only thinks of Quidditch and avoiding homework," he said with a wry twist to his lips. Barty's head whipped to look at him with a calculating expression.

"Quidditch…" He grinned then, and Harry embraced the shiver that snaked down his spine this time. Behind that grin it was always like he could see the man's mind working, those fantastic gears whirling at rates Harry could only envy. "Brilliant, Harry, that's perfect. I've seen you out at the pitch, you're grace personified in the skies. And Harry Potter Summoning his broom would be highly in character."

"So be it," Harry muttered, leaning back against the man's legs. "To the skies, then, and hopefully I can keep my limbs intact."

* * *

Hermione renewed their warming charms as they followed the shaggy black dog further towards the base of the mountain, huddling close to him and puffing breaths into her hands. It was November 22nd, Sunday, only two days before the first task and the night before had seen the first Scottish deep freeze of the year.

"It's cold is what it is, and where are we? Wandering up a mountain with a great dog leading the way. I could be studying right now. I could be getting ahead on my Transfiguration homework. I could be trying to figure out a better plan against a dragon than summoning a ruddy broom, but no. Here I am, in the snow…"

Hermione's muttered litany continued, and Harry bit a knuckle to stop from laughing at her. It was a habit she'd had since first year, muttering to herself like that, though it only usually came out at times of great stress or worry. This time, though, her worry was more for him than it was for herself.

Sirus yipped up ahead, pausing for a moment to roll in the snow and loll his tongue in Harry's direction. He laughed at the man despite all his worries, gripping him by the scruff of his neck when he tried to barrel Harry over. "Come on, you great, smelly beast. Hurry up."

They were finally led through a small copse of trees and then into a barely noticeable crevice in the mountainside. Sirius dashed inside with Hermione on his heels, grimacing at the tiny opening, and Harry close behind.

Upon entering, even before Sirius had transformed, Hermione set about placing warming charms and various secrecy wards over the space. "Not taking any chances, and I'm not going to sit here as an icicle either, I'll have you know."

Sirius immediately enveloped Harry in a hug when he'd transformed, and Harry couldn't conceal his grimace of distaste. Sirius was dirt-crusted and likely hadn't bathed in weeks if his scent was anything to go by.

The man backed off sheepishly. "Sorry 'bout that, Prongslet. Forgot how gross I'd be. Well, come on. Give us some squashy chairs, then."

Harry smiled a bit tightly and transfigured some pebbles into armchairs, embarrassed when they looked exactly like the wingback chairs in Barty's rooms. Sirius plopped into the one done in vivid Gryffindor red with a pleased sigh. "Nice job, perfectly squashy."

Hermione had pulled out a book from her shoulder bag and was reading in the light from the cave's entrance, ignoring them as well as possible. Harry smiled fondly and turned back to Sirius. "How are you doing?"

"Not bad, I suppose. I'm cute enough, or pitiful enough at least, that I get fed by well-meaning muggles most days, and I've not had much trouble. Getting bored of being a dog, though. But who cares about me?" Sirius grinned, yellowed teeth bared. "My godson, the Champion! How'd ya do it?"

Harry let a put-out moue take over his face. "I didn't."

"No need to be modest with me, Prongslet."

"I'm not being modest, I'm serious."

"No, I'm Sirius."

Harry wanted to bash his head into something and scowled at his Godfather, dropping his head into his hands. "Sirius, please stop this. I swear to you on my magic that I did not put my name in the Goblet, nor did I intend to be chosen as the Hogwarts Champion." It was truth, after all.

Sirius pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, looking far less flippant. "And what is the first task?"

"Dragons, I guess. I snuck down and bribed one of the handlers—" " _Harry!_ " "—to find out that the three dragons are nesting mothers, and we're to retrieve something from their nests." He ignored Hermione's indignant squawk.

Sirius grinned wickedly. "That's my boy. _Nesting_ dragons, what in the hell are those Ministry idiots thinking? Well then, I guess our next step is to find out who, exactly, put your name in the cup and for what reason, eh? A good, old-fashioned mystery, that is! Maybe I'll snoop around the grounds to look for clues—"

"Sirius Black you shall do no such thing," Hermione cut in, stomping up to them with her hands on her hips. "You're already too reckless as it is, coming all the way to Hogsmeade when you're wanted as you are. Honestly, how foolish can you be? No, you need to get out of here and get back into the muggle world until we can get your name cleared."

"And just how will you do that?" Harry was taken aback by the darkness Sirius exuded, glaring towards the witch. "If even Dumbledore's word isn't enough to get me a _trial_ , why in the hell would some teenagers be able to clear my name?"

Harry wondered about that, the lack of trial. And he wondered if Dumbledore had even tried to get one, now that he thought of it. He didn't ask Sirius, however.

Hermione was angry now, her face flushing as her jaw clenched. "Ungrateful—urgh! Harry, I'll meet you in the Three Broomsticks." And she was gone, her muttered irritation drifting back into the cave for long seconds after she left.

Sirius looked chagrined, putting his head in his hands. "I'm sorry about upsetting your friend, Harry. I just… it seems so hopeless most days. My life was over before it ever really started, I think, and the idea of resuming it is starting to look like a pipe dream. Something to fantasize about, but nothing that could ever really happen."

Harry sighed and, once again, wondered just what he was going to do about Sirius. He could ask his father to give him Pettigrew and get Sirius's name cleared within a week, he knew… but what then? Would the man try to take custody of him? He had no need for a father, no need for someone to poke their nose into his business. Especially not someone like Sirius who was so intent on defying the Dark and his family's legacy.

Sirius tugged on his matted hair, scowling. "Don't even have a bloody wand… at least then I could ward up a cave like this and cast a warming charm."

That… Harry could help with. Warily, he stood, reaching into the pocket of his trousers for the silvery mokeskin pouch he had bought in China. It was bottomless and secure and he just really liked the feel of the silvery-green moke scales. He reached inside, searching, avoiding the curious and suspicious look in Sirius's eyes as he ended up up to his elbow in the bag.

With a small grunt of triumph, Harry seized the wand he used over the summer when training with his father, wishing to keep his Holly wand clean and untainted. It was hawthorn with a core of sphinxstone, springy and good for Defense Against the Dark Arts and the Dark Arts alike. He held it, handle out, to his Godfather.

"Harry, why do you have a second wand?" Sirius asked with narrowed eyes. "That's a pureblood thing, having a secondary. A Dark thing."

Harry didn't answer, just closed Sirius's fingers around the wand. "Just be thankful. It should work well enough for you, though I'm sure it won't be perfect."

Sirius flicked it, his eyes lightening just a bit when silver and gold sparks spluttered out of the tip. "Oh magic, I missed you so…"

* * *

Harry made his way down to the edge of the Forbidden Forest when he saw Viktor being escorted from the Great Hall, not bothering to wait for whomever would be there to walk him down. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end in anticipation and he suppressed a full-body shiver.

When he was nine, he and his father had gone to Romania to see the world's largest dragon reserve, and a well-placed _Imperio_ had given them free reign to wander there. Harry had been entranced by the beasts, mesmerized by their beauty and majesty. His father had given him history lessons and breakdowns of strengths and weaknesses as they strolled through the dense forest, invisibility spells and other stealth measures keeping the dragons ignorant to their presence.

As he skipped down Hogwarts's entry steps, a group of Ravenclaws passed him, chattering excitedly. Behind them lagged Roger Davies, handsome as always, and his eyes pinned Harry neatly in place. The boy's fingers trailed over the back of Harry's hand surreptitiously as he passed, brow raised in question. Harry smirked in return and winked, feeling a shiver of delight run through him.

It was not that he was experienced, but neither was he inexperienced. And really, the tension he'd had lately needed an outlet. Cornering the brunet in an empty classroom seemed a good way to go.

Harry smiled even as the tent came into view, his heart light.

Fleur and Viktor did not seem to feel as light as he did, he noted, walking into the tent and peering around. Both looked drawn and pale, lost in their own worlds. They were the only others in the tent and it was silent but for the murmur of voices outside as spectators made their way to the viewing stands.

Fleur was tapping her wand against her thigh in a steady tempo, the toes of her left foot following the same beat.

"Harry! Good-o!" Harry spun to see Ludo Bagman enter behind him, his face overwhelmed by his jovial smile. "You're early! Guess that means we can get this show on the road, eh?"

Harry hoped he got the Swedish Short-Snout. Chinese Fireballs were too agile, Hungarian Horntails too vicious. The Short-Snout had exceptional flames, but it was the least maneuverable in the air as well due to oddly shaped wings indicative of the breed. For his purposes, it was the best choice.

But of course he drew the Horntail.

He listened to Bagman recite the way the competition would go with half an ear, already recalculating. Perhaps he would need to pair his public persona and his more honest self together. Something subversive to make dodging the great beast easier.

"Harry? Could I have a quick word? Outside?"

He grimaced but pasted on a shy smile, nodding to Bagman. "Of course, sir."

"Got a plan?" said Bagman, lowering his voice conspiratorially when they were far enough from the tent. "Because I don't mind sharing a few pointers, if you'd like them, you know. I mean," Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further, "you're the underdog here, Harry. Anything I can do to help…"

Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, not particularly surprised that Bagman would be willing to cheat, but surprised the man was so forthright about it. "No, sir, I will be fine. I've been strategizing for over a week now."

"Nobody would know, Harry," said Bagman, winking at him.

Harry forced on a matching smirk[, a bit uncomfortable by the greedy glint in Bagman's eyes. "I appreciate it, sir, but at least for this run I've got it. For one of the other tasks, though, I might appreciate the backup."

The man grinned and chortled, shoulders back and head cocked to the side. "We'll just have to see about that, huh? Well, since you all are early, I think I'm going to go work the crowd a bit." Bagman grinned and threw another wink. "Good luck, Harry! I know you can do it!"

Harry rolled his eyes as the man walked away, turning to watch the spectators arriving in droves. The majority of the crowd moving towards the stands seemed to be students from all three schools, but there were a lot of dignified looking wizards in official robes and some tittering groups of civilians milling along with them. The turnout was high and would only grow as the tournament went along.

Harry stiffened and gasped, his hand flying up to his forehead, just as a small cough sounded behind him. "Hem, hem."

He spun and goggled, eyeing the figure with horror. She looked like a toad, squat and short with her jowls loose and just a bit wobbly. Harry didn't care about that, though. He rubbed his scar and resisted the urge to dash forward with joy; no matter the form he was in, he would recognize his father anywhere.

"What in the world are you doing he—"

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Potter," the woman simpered in a high, girlish voice. Harry shuddered. "I am Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary to Minister Fudge."

Harry stepped forward with restraint and took her hand in a short jerking shake, his back to anyone who might be watching. This alone let him grin as widely as possible down at the woman in her knit yarn top of a dozen shades of pink. "Charmed, madam. What a… lovely jumper you have there."

The woman's eye twitched and Harry barely stifled a laugh. Her voice came in an undertone with barely moving lips. "Harry, you cannot be quite so obvious."

"I'm sorry, but this is the most ridiculous person I've ever seen you bother with in choosing your disguises. Why this toad of a woman, Father?" he breathed, sure the commotion around them would hide what he said.

"She is useful.  She has power and position and access; I cannot let my distaste keep me from utilizing such a resource. But Salazar help me, I feel ill Polyjuicing into such a wretched, disgusting woman. I'd thank you to pretend this never happened." His father raised the woman's voice, smiling with alacrity. "Oh, I do wish you luck today, Mister Potter. No matter how you came to be here, you're representing the British Ministry for Magic now!"

Harry basked in his father's presence, his scar buzzing. With the ritual they'd used to cement his father in the body of his Horcrux, they had been able to stop the pain he felt through his odd connection to his father, but his scar still reacted in odd ways when near the man. He wished he knew why it did that, but figured it was something about the way the Killing Curse had rebounded. He rubbed it now on habit and could not stop grinning. "You and Barty should go hug, both Polyjuiced. What a picture that would make!"

He could tell his father was sorely tempted to cuff him by the spike of itchiness in the connection. But Harry could take the irritation for the amusement it gave him. Voldemort scowled, and on the woman's face it looked hilarious. "This form means I have the opportunity to be on the school grounds during every event, so I cannot compromise it now, no matter how much I think you need to be taken over a knee. I must go, Harry, but I wanted you to know I was here to support you. I will be watching, and we will have opportunity to speak more at the second task."

Harry fairly glowed as he promised "Madame Umbridge" that he would uphold the Ministry's reputation in the competition, and he glided back to the competitor's tent with a bounce to his step. With both Barty _and_ his father there watching him, cheering him on, he could take down all _three_ dragons if he had to.

Public expectations or not, Barty and Voldemort's opinions mattered to him a million times more. He'd make them proud.


	5. The most exhausting thing in life is being insincere. ~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: sexual situations between minors, one more tame and the last... well, NSFW in any case. They bookend this chapter if you're looking to avoid.

Harry gasped as teeth nipped at his jaw, tensing his fingers in the short, dark hair at the boy's neck. He arched closer at the press of a hand to the small of his back, whimpered as the mouth sucked hard on his pulse.

Their combined breaths were loud in the dusty, disused classroom, where Harry's back was to the rough stone. Roger Davies had two physical years on him and it showed in the effortless way he'd lifted and pressed Harry's body to the wall, needy fingers bruising on his hips.

Davies pulled back, breathing labored, and met Harry's eyes as he slipped a hand under Harry's shirt. Harry tried not to roll his eyes. He wasn't some virgin, really, he didn't need the Skittish Maiden treatment. He hiked one of his legs to wrap around the boy's hip, forcing their groins into harsh contact, and the older boy's eyes rolled back in his head. Harry grinned wickedly.

Davies' eyes were lighter, his hair darker, his jaw wider and less defined, his cheeks too round, his nose upturned rather than straight and proud. But if Harry squinted, he thought the boy looked an awful lot like Barty. The thought made him harder.

They rutted like the hormonal teens they were, frotting hard and gracelessly until Davies gasped and bit Harry's shoulder, a hand fumbling to press and jerk against the front of Harry's jeans. Harry found himself grinding into that hand until the winding tension in his gut released, leaving him boneless and only kept upright by the pressure of Davies leaning into him.

"Hell, Harry," Davies said breathlessly. "Where've you been all my life?"

Harry snorted, pushing the boy back by the shoulder and casting a quick, painful _Scorgify_ on himself. "Prepubescent?"

Davies' look was just confused, and Harry resisted a rude, disparaging sigh. It would have been too much to ask to have the boy look like Barty and not be a simpleton, he supposed, Ravenclaw or no.

"Right, well, I need to get back to my dorm now. Good time, Davies, see you soon."

The boy fumbled towards him, catching Harry's wrist and making a needy noise. "Wait, Harry, I want to see you again."

This time he did sigh, rolling his eyes. "You see me daily. We have the interhouse Quidditch tourney this coming Sunday morning. I'll see you in all sorts of places."

Davies shook his head, looking dumbfounded and a bit uneasy. "I meant, umm, I meant that I wanted to, you know, hang out? Maybe, erm, go to Hogsmeade together weekend after next?"

Harry felt silly being so momentarily oblivious, but he could say without question that he'd never had someone… _interested_ before. In the moment, of course; his back-room fumbles with the children, male and female, of his father's political contacts hadn't been a secret or something he'd been ashamed of. But those were all just happenstance and because he was _there_ , not because _he_ was there. He panicked just a bit, nervously, and shook the boy off. "Umm, can I think about it?"

Davies nodded emphatically. "Yeah, of course, that's fine! Just—let me know?"

Harry thought of his father's red eyes as Harry tried to put his hair back into a semblance of normality, rolling and motioning for him to follow. _'Your age means I'll ignore this, Harry, but don't let your dalliances blind you. When your allegiance come out, there will be many who will seek you just for the pleasure of bedding my heir, to hope to glean information on my plans from you. Emotion is weakness. Keep your physical desire physical.'_ He'd never had cause to reconsider what his father'd said, but that conversation and a hundred more rolled through his mind now, reminding him of the disgusted, demeaning look in his father's eyes as he'd spoken of the weakness of humans.

Harry escaped.

* * *

Harry stirred his cauldron anticlockwise, humming in the back of his throat as the Beauxbaton girl he was paired with – it was not the usual girl, Cécile or whatever her name was, but one of her friends – read off the next instruction.

He dwelled. Some might call it moping, but Harry was not about to go that far. He was just… deep in thought. He thought of Sirius and his fearful, careworn expression, he thought of Davies and his pleading, brown eyes so very similar to another's but missing that spark, he thought of Ron's vapid anger and of Hermione's withdrawal. He thought of his father, beaming with pride in a borrowed body, on his feet amongst the spectators just two weeks past. He thought of Barty… oh, he thought of Barty.

Barty's easy grin when Harry entered his chambers. Barty's habit of sinking his front teeth into his lower lip when plotting to try to keep his incessant tongue-flicking at bay. The inevitable failure of the previous when he was too distracted to care. Barty's laugh when Harry surprised him, the look of his face in the firelight, long shadows throwing gaunt contours over his cheeks, his lashes sweeping darkness over his eyes.

In normal circumstances, he would have seen the single flobberworm flying from the Slytherin side of the room, would have noted the hastily smothered giggles as they watched it arc towards his cauldron. His entire school career, after all, had been training him to know when they were Up To Something. But his distraction made him only able to blink stupidly down into the liquid as the flobberworm sunk to the bottom.

"You little idiot, get _down_ ," Snape snarled just as he flew at Harry, tackling him to the ground as the cauldron's contents spouted three feet in the air, droplets just reaching to splatter across the ceiling.

"You irresponsible little—what in Salazar's name were you doing, Potter?"

Harry scowled and pushed at Snape's chest, avoiding the snarling yellowed teeth and brush of lank hair. "I didn't do _anything_ , I was just stirring—"

"'e was, Professor!" his partner cried, her hands over her chest. "I would never let 'im put such a t'ing into our cauldron!"

"It vas this one," a Durmstrang boy said, scowling and pointing at Malfoy. "Nearly knocked my arm vhile I was stirring."

Snape looked enraged that the foreign students were making his blame difficult, and the wrathful look in his dark eyes told Harry that he would pay for it later. "Detention, beginning immediately, for being inattentive. Mister Malfoy, you will join him." Snape pushed himself up and spun, glaring at them all. "Out, all of you!"

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring hotly through the throng of students at the peek of blonde that shone through. Hermione stopped at his side and crouched for a moment, smoothing his hair. "Oh, Harry. Behave, okay? I'll see you after dinner."

He pulled himself to his feet before the room was empty and suppressed a flinch as the classroom door banged shut behind the last student, leaving him alone with one glaring, angry Slytherin bat and one smug, gloating Slytherin ponce. Harry drew himself up to his unimpressive, under-average height and set his jaw firmly.

Snape seemed to sense the change with the honing look of a shark scenting blood. He began closing in on him. "You, Mister Potter, will begin with the non-magical removal of this… mess you've made of my classroom. Furthermore, you will scrub all of the used jars from which bubotuber pus was taken for this lesson. With your fingers and nothing more. If I find even a speck of detritus marring the glass upon my return, you will have detention with me for the remainder of the week _and_ the weekend."

Harry swallowed down his instinctive urge to scream out in horror at the idea of missing his Quidditch. It was the first thing they'd been able to put together all year, with the Tournament cancelling the official House race. Instead he nodded, stiff and angry. "Yes, Professor."

Snape looked suspicious, but simply turned to Draco. "And you, Mister Malfoy. You will supervise Potter to ensure he does not use magic for his tasks, and grade these Hufflepuff First Year potions essays." Malfoy looked green at this, and through the burning pit of irritation Harry smirked. Thankfully internally, as Snape spun back then with a gimlet eye. "You will listen to Mister Malfoy while I am in the Great Hall. If he tells me you put so much as a toe out of line…" Snape smirked, oily and decadent. "Well, I doubt the other Houses will miss you at your little ill-fated game."

He strode from the room then with his robes snapping, the door slamming once more in finality behind him. Harry listened to his harsh footfalls as they disappeared down the hall.

Malfoy made an exaggerated noise as he stretched, arms overhead and feet swinging to kick onto Snape's desktop. "Well, Saint Potty, won't we have a fun hour in here?"

Harry tried to ignore him, already retrieving his usual bucket and scrub brush from the supply closet and using a half-powered _Aguamenti_ to fill it. Another spell added suds and he set to work on the now semi-gelatinous globs of potion that dripped from the ceiling.

"Oi!" Malfoy called, the clank of wood on stone telling Harry he'd sat back proper and put the chair back with all four feet on the floor. "You have to listen to me, Potter! Didn't you hear Professor Snape?"

Harry sat back and closed his eyes, breathing deep and long in his nose and out his mouth, trying to keep back any overreaction.

A booted toe began prodding his ribs; he'd not heard the boy approach. "Oiiii. Potter. I know you aren't nearly so good at this as you think you are; you'd better give in now. Potter. Potty. Poor Orphan Potter, the stupid and ignorant." Draco delivered a sharp kick to his ribs and Harry saw red. "Scarhead, you'd better—"

He grabbed Draco's ankle, twisting it until the boy cried out in pain and wobbled precariously on one foot. "If you have any of that vaunted Slytherin self-preservation in you, Malfoy, you'll stop touching me this instant."

"And what will you do, Potty?" Draco shrieked with nervous laughter even has he tried to yank his foot from Harry's grip. "Bore me to death? Cast Rictusempra until I giggle myself into unconsciousness? Ply me with pitiful orphan feelings about your disgusting Mudblood mother and your blood-traitor father until I expire from—"

Harry's wand was at his fingertips and he'd blasted into the boy before he'd thought it through, but the rush of lightly Dark magic roiling through his blood for the first time in months invigorated him. He slashed his wand to the side to cast a modified silencing curse, one that stitched the person's mouth shut with thick, leather cord. Draco's eyes were blown wide with pupils dilated in fear. Blood slowly seeped from the punctures around his lips.

Harry stalked closer, jabbing his wand into the hollow of the boy's throat. "Listen to me, Draco. You are going to stop. You are going to leave me alone. I do not have the _time_ or the _patience_ for your shit." He slid his wand down until it was positioned center on the boy's sternum and fixed him with the most ferocious glare he could. "I swear to you that I will practice the entirety of _Ministry Approved Curses for Pain and Suffering_ on you if you do not stop your baffling bullshit. Do you understand me?"

"Mmphm!" Draco squeaked, mouth quivering behind the stitches. Harry twitched his other hand and they ripped free, pulling a scream from the boy. "Oh Merlin, he's cracked. He's gone totally mad now. We're all going to die because the Scarhead's gone round the bend. Oh, Salazar help me…"

Harry's hand closed around the boy's throat to shut off the constant stream of panicking words. "I know over three hundred curses, perfectly legal, to make your death a slow and painful thing, Malfoy." He tightened his hand. "I know over a dozen spells that would kill you in an instant. I know a dozen more that would kill you tomorrow, with me miles away." When he released his hand this time, the boy stayed silent, mouth bloodied and expression frozen with fear. "Do I make myself clear?"

The boy slid down the wall without support under his legs, nodding emphatically but not making a sound. His usually slicked hair was arranged in a mad nest of tendrils around his head, hands shaking as they pressed to his face.

Harry snorted at how pathetic it was. "Really? You aspire to be a Death Eater and you're already cowering? That's pitiful. You'd better gain a backbone before you leave Hogwarts, or you'll be turned away in an instant."

He waved his wand then, cleaning the room and the glass jars both, sending them dancing to their spot beside the sink. He stared at Draco and dared him to say a word, but the boy only shook his head.

He left the room without the drama of Snape but with a crash nonetheless, grinning as he heard glass break and Draco squeal. He was about to start towards the dorms when a low, familiar chuckle caught his attention, and the barest swish of invisibility cloak exposed Moody's wooden claw. He darted for an alcove down the hall and was pressed upon, drawn under the folds nearly instantly.

It was too dark to see Moody's face and though the body was too thick, too misshapen to be Barty's, the scent was of his spiced soap. Harry closed his eyes and breathed as hot air blew against his neck, the pressure of Moody's borrowed head against his shoulder. "You are so brilliant, Young Lord," he breathed, a mad giggle quickly stifled, wrong in Moody's gruff bass. "You are beautiful in your rage; your anger makes my pulse race."

Harry shivered as hands tightened on his hips and another laugh was muffled against his neck. "Watching you make the boy squirm was art in motion, beauty illustrated in sweeps of terror and blood. I wish I could see you unleashed, my dearest Lord; I count the days until I can."

Harry couldn't control the ragged pace of his breathing as a sweet-scented breath passed over his lips, too close, too wrong. But he was half-hard regardless just in knowing who this was, no matter the body.

"Soon, soon," Barty half-wept, pressing hard before stepping away, leaving Harry flushed and panting in the dark corner. "Come to me tonight, Young Lord. There are plans to be made and new news to impart. Will you be there?"

"Yes," Harry hissed, trying to regain himself. He stared where the voice came from, seeing just the faintest shimmer of an outline as Barty began to move away. "Yes."

* * *

Ron grumbled as the Gobstone he'd flicked rolled around the Snake Pit's edge then skittered away, out of the circle. "I hate this game," he moaned as the yellow sap jetted at him.

Ron was looking anywhere but at Harry. Since the first task and his resulting attempt at an apology to Harry (and Harry's staunch refusal of said apology), Ron had been constantly around him, nose in the air. Harry didn't know if this was supposed to do anything but irritate him, but it did little but. He was there constantly, seeming to be trying to rub his own ignoring of Harry in his face.

Neville snorted from Ron's side then looked embarrassed to have done so, immediately blushing and looking away. He still answered though, hesitantly. "I'm only winning because Gran used to force me to tournaments with her lady group," he said with pink cheeks. His own cherry-red Stone snapped across the playing board, hitting another of Ron's yellow pieces and sinking his own.

Harry's own green pieces were not doing much better than Ron's, but that was mainly due to Neville's surprisingly deft fingers flicking them away. Harry's Stones smelt of pine, however, and though it was cloying it was still better than Ron's lemon-scented ones. His fingers were sticky and gooey with it.

"I don't know why you three bother with that," said Hermione from her perch on Ron's bed, only her frizzy bangs peeking out over the book she was engrossed in.

"You don't know why we bother with _anything_ that's even a little fun," Ron grumbled in reply, swearing as he flicked too hard and his piece went careening off the board. The resulting spray of lemon-scented stickiness splattered Harry's glasses.

Hermione's fingers tightened on the book, knuckles going white. "There is a line between fun and pointless, Ronald."

"And you wouldn't know it if it slapped you across the face!"

Neville looked horrified and scooted backwards on his rear, wide-eyed. Harry cringed, already putting his Stones back into their container and mapping out a quick exit from the dorm as he swished his wand over his clothes, hands, and glasses to remove the sticky, colored remains of the Gobstones.

But the explosion they expected did not happen. Hermione stared at Ron, face blank, long enough to be beyond awkward and to nearly make the boy piss himself. Harry could see the telltale tensing of her lips, the way her chest heaved in a breath then held for long moments, repeating this several times.

In the end, she just turned back to her book, but that seemed to terrify Ron more than anything else she might have done. He whimpered and curled up, wide eyes seeking and locking on Harry, then Neville.

Neville finished putting the pieces away and stood, gathering the box and sliding it under his dorm bed before making for the door. Harry watched Hermione until she gave him a small nod, his signal to leave as well. He was glad that, when they'd caught him in the dorm, he'd already had the map and cloak tucked away, as he could just dash away towards Barty's now, prepared for the evening.

He was waylaid as he stepped out of the portrait hole, though; Dean and Seamus were trotting up to him, grins on their faces. "Harry! Ready for this weekend? We've got fifty sickles on you managing to get the snitch!"

Several of all the teams – bar Slytherin, and most especially Ravenclaw – were short players and had had to replace with whoever was willing to bend outside the rules for this unofficial set of games. Gryffindor only retained Harry, Fred, and George, but Harry had faith they'd be enough, though their Chasers were awful. "I'll do my best, guys," he said with a poorly hidden grimace, trying to ignore the greedy looks on their faces. Two-faced fiends, they were, just like the rest of this school. Seamus, especially, had been loudest in his protests against Harry's entry into the Triwizard Tournament, but had suddenly become all sickly sweet again once the first task was over and it seemed he had a chance to win.

Dean nudged him (' _Mudblood, don't touch me!'_ a voice like Harry's father hissed) and slung a companionable arm around his shoulders. "Didn't see you at dinner, mate. You eating all right? Can't have you weak and fainting if we're to beat the snot out of Slytherin."

"Oooo, I can't wait to rub Malfoy's prissy little nose in it," Seamus crowed, pumping an arm into the air. "Sissy little caffler, he'll see what's what, won't he Harry?"

Harry slipped out from under Dean's arm and gave another painful rendition of a smile, laughing in a way that grated on his own ears. "You bet your arse, I'll get him for you. Need to go get a bite to eat from the kitchens, though; like you said, I missed dinner. Don't want me falling off the broom, do ya?"

Seamus crowed something about him being a pull through for a rifle, and Harry darted down the stairs, eager to escape to Barty's rooms. It was his only comfort these days, and he could sorely remember how he had survived the last three years without him.

The fire was burning merrily when he swept into the rooms, beckoning the Guardian Armor closed behind him. He shucked off his cloak and nearly collapsed into his usual chair, seeing Barty nowhere in sight but knowing he was welcome. Harry's fingers reached up to the blue and bronze bauble at his throat, stroking it as he had taken often to doing, as if it brought him closer to the man who'd made it.

He didn't know how long he sat, half aware in front of the fire, but he was brought back into awareness by the spiced scent of sausage. Before his face sat a banger of hefty proportions, on a plate held by a smiling Barty. "I know you didn't get food."

Harry forwent the fork and plucked the sausage between two fingers, ripping off a vicious bite and sinking back in happiness. He loved sausage more than was reasonable sometimes; his father was not one to crave much meat, so he'd not had overlot of it when he was young.

"What news do you have that you need to share?" Harry asked between bites, swallowing deeply. "You sounded excited."

Barty's teeth gleamed in a grin that was all sharp edges and feral delight. "For the entire weekend of the second task, my _father,"_ Barty growled, fingers tensing at his knees, "will be in attendance."

"Oh— oh!" Harry breathed with excitement, sitting forward, his half-eaten sausage forgotten in his hand. "You'll let me help you, then?"

A hand reached, faltered, then continued to touch against Harry's knee, Barty's boney, spindly hand staying there for just a moment before retreating. "I would have it no other way, Harry. No other way."

Harry grinned. "Well, then. Let's plan."

* * *

"Prongslet…"

Harry pursed his lips and shook his head, smoothing his robes over his knees. "Sirius, I can't tell you everything."

The man's pale eyes narrowed. "But you can tell me something."

Harry shrugged. "What do you want to know?"

It was cold, Harry noted as he tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He wished he had thought to have Hermione teach him warming charms. He would have to rectify that soon; she wouldn't always be there to make up for the areas his training lacked.

"Why did you have a second wand to begin with?"

Harry's fingers tapped against his thigh beneath his heavy cloak, eyes half-mast as he watched Sirius warily. The man looked like he had gone through hell, which he had, hair still one large matted clump on his back, face gaunt. The madness in his eyes had not been tempered by freedom as Harry had hoped it would be, but instead seemed to have been exacerbated. There was a wildness there, a combination of fearpanichate that made the man twitch and spin at the smallest noises, borrowed wand at the ready. Battle training combined with the paranoia of one whose life depended on remaining unseen.

"How much truth are you looking for here, Sirius?" The man's mouth opened to respond, but Harry held up a hand, palm out, to stop him. "Think before you answer, Sirius. Think of the secrets I may be keeping, the things you may learn. Do you really want the truth, even if the truth means you find out the things you fear, the things that hover on the edges of your mind as the best explanations? Do you really want that confirmation?"

Sirus's teeth clacked as he shut his mouth, a pained frown crossing his face. He was staring intently at Harry, eyes flicking from his eyes to his mouth to his fingers and back again, trying to take stock of him, understand his layers. One hand was steadily picking at the fingernails of the other, steadily more violent as he frowned deeper yet.

Harry took pity on him. "I am happy with my life, if that eases your mind at all. I know that I'm a lucky person and I've got a lot of great things going for me. They aren't things you would be happy with, but I'm happy with myself."

The sigh Sirius gave was massive, and his eyes flicked away to the cave's entrance. "Right, best you don't tell me then. But… you know I'm here if you need me, right?"

Harry smiled at the man. "Yeah. I know."

They sat in silence for a bit in Harry's conjured armchairs, both of them brown with red trim now and more resembling those in the Gryffindor common room than Barty's. He'd lost Hermione and Ron in Zonko's, never having told them that Sirius was once more just outside of town. He knew this meeting would at least hint at things that he didn't need them to even contemplate.

Sirius slumped a bit in his chair, grimacing. "The not asking is going to drive me mad, though."

"Drive you there?" Harry said dryly, unrepentant even as Sirius pouted.

"I hate to say it, but it might be best if I went back to the house I grew up in. I hate that place more than any other place in the world, but I don't think I can take much longer living as a dog. It's doing things to me." It was an odd moment of clarity from his Godfather, and Harry nodded encouragingly. He didn't like worrying over the man, no matter how much he knew he shouldn't care.

"That may be wise. I assume, since it would be owned by the Blacks, it has good warding?"

"Some of the best in the British Isles," he confirmed, nodding even as his face took on a moue of total disgust. "Hate that house so damn much, though."

"But it's still a house."

"That it is."

Harry took a small package out of his pocket and tapped it to unshrink it, popping open the sticking charm he'd closed the box with and handing it over. "Here's a hot meal for you; the House Elves didn't ask questions. I'd have brought you more, but I don't know any stasis charms."

"I don't either," Sirius looked ravenous and ate with his hands; Harry's father would be appalled.

Harry politely kept his eyes off the man as he devoured the box of food, probably too quickly for it to stay down fully, but Harry wasn't about to tell a full-grown man how to eat. He found himself wondering how Sirius would feel, facing him on the battlefield. Would he stay out of the conflict knowing Harry would be against him, or would he fight to turn Harry to the "proper" side? He hoped he didn't have to find out.

Sirius belched and Harry sighed in derision, earning a smug grin from the man. "Feel better?"

"Tons," said Sirius with a satisfied slump to his shoulders. "Now I need a nap."

Harry laughed and transfigured a bed from a small fern, using one leaf to make a lumpy-looking mattress (he cringed, but he'd never been stellar at Transfiguration. The chairs were an exception with how often he made them), another to make a thin pillow, and a last one to make a garish blanket that, at least, looked thick and warm.

"Don't let me keep you, then. I'm decent enough that that bed should last through the night, though if you wake up by falling to the floor I'm sorry."

Sirius's eyes were hungry again, but this time at the bed. "I've always been shit at Transfiguration. That was your dad's thing, I stayed with Defense and Charms. Thanks, Prongslet."

Harry smiled and watched the man collapse boneless, banishing the chairs. "Write me soon, Sirius."

A snore was his only response.

* * *

Harry cringed as the Fat Lady screeched drunkenly for him to show himself, all too loud in the silent castle. He was later than usual; he and Barty had gotten into a rousing debate on magic classification that they'd lost themselves in until after one in the morning. He had Transfiguration first thing, though, so he'd peeled himself away once he'd noted the time.

The common room was predictably silent as he snuck to and up the stairs, skipping the one that tended to complain loudly when trod upon. He pulled off the invisibility cloak only after shutting his room's door behind him, exhaling noisily.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Harry grimaced as Ron's lit wand surfaced, his curtains cinched wide on the side facing the door. Day after next students would be leaving for home for Yule and Harry would finally have a bit of privacy to study the Golden Egg from the first task, as the second would be coming swiftly in the new year. There had been talk of a Yule Ball that was traditional with the Triwizard Tournament, but due to several key Ministry officials objecting, it had been cancelled. Harry could only be relieved – what in the world would he do at a _ball_? Who would he even take? – and something about the sly smirk Barty'd worn after that announcement told him that he'd had something to do with the decision. It was a boon, as a ball on school grounds would have kept students back from going home, and he'd never get the privacy he so dearly needed.

Harry's lack of answer seemed to annoy Ron. "Oi, I'm not dumb, mate, I can see you there."

He sighed and shook his head. "I was in the library studying for the second task. You know, the tournament that could kill me?"

"Oh, don't try and guilt me, Harry," Ron hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "You're the one that won't forgive me!"

"There wouldn't be anything to forgive if you weren't such a berk!"

Harry was surprised by how true those words felt, how deeply he actually _missed_ Ron's idiocy. He'd discussed it with Barty a few weeks prior and the man had laughed at him, told him that he was only human, but he still hadn't been able to quite puzzle out what he'd meant by that.

Ron was silent, and Harry thought that maybe he'd gone back to sleep, but the still-lit wand told him that was a farfetched idea. He made his way to his bed regardless, dumping his invisibility cloak and the Marauder's Map into his trunk and stripping out of his t-shirt. He wriggled into his pajamas next, drawing back the curtains on his own bed before he paused, back to where the light of Ron's wand still faintly illuminated the room.

"I really am sorry," Ron grumbled in the stillness, _Lumos_ winking out. "I was just so jealous – thought you'd decided you wanted something better than 'Mione and me; thought you'd get your glory and leave us behind."

Harry breathed deeply, softly. "I wouldn't. Seek glory, I mean. I can't promise we're gonna be friends forever, Ron, but I can promise you that I'm not going to just leave you. It will be your choice when you go." That was uncomfortably honest.

There was a rustle of Ron's sheets, the boy setting back into his bed. "I may be a jerk, but I'm a loyal jerk, you know. You can't get rid of me easily."

Harry gave a wry smirk into the darkness as he took to his own bed. When the truth finally came out in a few months' time, he'd see how "easily" it was after all.

* * *

Harry looked up through his lashes at Davies, swallowing him whole as the boy babbled incoherently. He loved the control of this, even on his knees before another person. The ability to completely break a person into pieces with his talents was something he had discovered young – too young, if he was honest with himself – was something he thrived on. Man or woman, he loved this position most of all.

"Oh Merlin, oh everything bright and magical, _Harry_ , faster…"

Harry hollowed his cheeks as he sucked hard, making Davies sob in pleasure. He reached down to stroke himself, his other hand clamped like a vice around the base of the boy's cock. He wouldn't be coming yet. Not if Harry had anything to say about it. The next day was when most students would go home for the holidays, and Harry had let himself be tempted away by Davies again, a bit of smuggled firewhiskey making his resemblance to Barty all the stronger. Harry peered up and squinted until he could see another brunet in the boy's place, ganglier and erratic where Davies was soft and unsure.

Harry hummed as Davies began begging, pleading to be allowed to come, the vibrations causing a veritable flood of precome to coat his tongue. "Please, please, oh Merlin, please let go Harry, pleasepleaseplease—"

Harry might have given in and let the boy, swallowed him down as he lost the last vestiges of dignity, but the door flew open then, crashing against the wall with enough force to make dust flutter down from the suspended, iron ring candle holders that hovered overhead.

He sat back on his haunches, left hand still clamped around Davies' cock and his right settled on his own, staring dumbly at the open doorway. Davies, on the other hand, scrabbled backwards without any such freezing, prying his cock free from Harry's stunned grip and scrambling to put it back into his pants as if it wasn't already too late.

Harry's breath felt like it was punched out of him as Mad-Eye's swiveling, magical blue eye focused on him and did not leave him, even as the owner thumped into the room with a scowl directed towards the skittering Davies, just finally zipping himself. Harry fought not to say a word as Moody's hand trembled around his wand, clenching and releasing, nearly losing grip entirely at one point. All the while, though, the magical eye stared at Harry, cock out and still hard as he could be, y-fronts tucked beneath his balls.

"Get out," he hissed darkly at the stuttering Davies, who squeaked like a first year girl and ran for the door, falling just outside of it as he tried to turn too quickly. He scrambled to his feet and ran.

Harry finally broke as the boy's footsteps echoed down the hall, feeling light-headed and near to passing out as all the blood in his body not already occupied rushed to his face in the darkest flush he'd ever experienced. He winced as he yanked his pants back over his genitals and did up his trousers with a bit more care, unable to lose even a fraction of his erection even in his humiliation, even if it made zipping difficult.

He felt Mad-Eye's eyes, both now, focused on his every move. He didn't dare meet them, though, instead watching as Moody's wand was rolled between shaking fingers.

Harry felt that he should explain, somehow. Tell Barty that it wasn't what he thought, that the boy meant nothing, that it was just— just teenaged hormones. He had the body of a fourteen year old and the mind of someone only a few years older, for Merlin's sake! But he was stricken mute by the quiet, palpable rage in Moody's posture and the shake of his hands, so less controlled than Barty ever was in anger. In excitement, in joy, in wicked glee he was always moving… but in rage he was always still. Harry swallowed.

There was a rustle as one of Moody's hands raised, a hitch of breathing as he perhaps thought to say something, then nothing. Moody's wooden claw hit the flagstones with finality as he made his way back for the open classroom door, wand now back in his sleeve. "Get to your dorm, Young Lord." Moody's voice was a rasp in the quiet, and Harry finally raised his eyes to take in the stiff line of his back. "If another professor catches you out, I can't do aught about it."

Harry leapt to his feet as Barty made to leave, "W-wait!"

He paused in the doorway, one gnarled hand against the frame. Silent again, not looking back.

Harry felt any words he might have had dry up in his throat, fingers curling at his sides. He felt as if they were on the edge of a precipice, but he found himself too terrified to leap from it. Instead, he cringed, looking at his battered trainers. "Thank you, for not giving us detention."

Moody's voice gave a huffing grunt. "Go, Young Lord."

Harry went.


	6. All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own. ~Johann von Goethe

The holidays were passing in a buzz of forced nothingness. Barty had been gone for a week now, escaping the castle with the students without more than a small note on Harry's pillow telling him he would be back for Yuletide. Harry refused to think deeply on this, could not bring himself to focus on the recriminations and the emotional pain the distance put upon him.

Everything about Barty had only become more terrifying with distance, and he couldn't bring himself to concentrate on that.

Harry studied the Golden Egg that Barty refused to tell him the secret of yet, trying to eke out on his own what the screeching was supposed to mean to him. He studied ahead in Defense and Ancient Runes, finished his holiday work from Potions and Charms. He buried himself in the library for days, only resurfacing for meals to keep suspicion at bay.

No one had stayed behind that could really call suspicion to him for his behavior, after all.

The night before Yule was stormy, and the ceiling crackled with magicked lightning. Harry listened to the near constant rumble of thunder from outside, straightening the line of brussel sprouts that formed a hedge around the slab of roasted goose he'd been neglecting. Spears of roasted parsnip made posts along his hedgerow, and tiny carrots cut into triangles by some industrious House Elf arranged on top of the goose meat in some kind of decorative edging.

"Well, my boy! It's like a savory gingerbread house you have there!" Harry froze and scowled as the bench rocked with the man's weight and forced on a smile before facing the Headmaster. "Though, I must say, eating it would be the most satisfying option."

Harry carefully didn't meet the man's eyes, instead spearing one of his sprouts and nibbling on it. "Is there something I can help you with, Professor Dumbledore?"

"I haven't seen much of you this year, Harry," the old man said breezily, placing a spongy treacle pudding on the empty plate he'd sat before. Drat on the small, "personal" feel of holiday meals at Hogwarts, anyway. "I worry for you, with the stress of the Tournament. Are you faring well?"

Harry resisted a sneer, jamming a chunk of goose and gravy into his mouth to delay his answer. The old man hardly even looked his direction, it wouldn't do for him to start doing so now, not when plans were in motion as they were. Since he'd been "too late" to save Ginny and had not immediately capsized under the disappointment in Dumbledore's gaze, the Headmaster had taken a step back from him. At the end of last term, though, he'd been there to help with Sirius, pointing he and Hermione in the right direction.

Harry couldn't decide how to play this, though. If he seemed too flippant about the tasks _or_ too buried under the weight of them, he could see Dumbledore becoming more involved. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth finally turning back to the man with Occlumency shields firmly in place. "So-so, Professor. I still can't figure out the hint for the next task, but after how the first task went, I'm more confident in myself. I've been studying Defense and Charms more heavily to try to make sure I'm well-rounded."

This seemed to please the Headmaster, as he grinned brightly, pale blue eyes crinkling. "Well done, my boy. I'm very proud of how you've handled this unfortunate responsibility. I do wish we could have had the Yule Ball tonight as planned; it would have been lovely, I had plans drawn up for decorations that would have taken even Severus's breath away! It is meant to be a respite for the Champions, but the Ministry—" he broke off with a scowl, then shook his head. "No matter. I am proud of you, my boy. Keep that chin up, and if you need anything, you know where my office is. For the beginning of the year, I am thinking that Licorice Wands sound appetizing, don't you?"

Harry watched as Dumbledore, dollop of treacle in his beard, stood and floated around to the few other people at the table, and he was perplexed as he always was after speaking to the man. Even a few words and he was left with the same, wary uncertainty of just how much of the man's persona was truth and lie.

He demolished the hedgerow in one swoop, realizing his appetite had totally abandoned him. He eyes scanned over the dozen students who had remained over break, the Professors who had deigned to come to dinner. He found himself aching for his familiar companion and begged out, smiling at those who noticed him retreating, pulling himself under the Entry stairs to throw on his invisibility cloak.

Though Barty had always told Harry he was welcome at any time, Harry had stayed from his rooms in the week that he'd been away. Now, though, his feet took him on the familiar path to the rooms, finding them dark and lifeless. He cast a spell to light the fireplace and sunk into his usual chair, curling in on himself.

Against his will, his eyes drifted to the only door leading from the main chamber: Barty's room. He'd been in there before, of course, usually just to cut through to the privy linked there. He ached, suddenly, to enter there, to shuck his robes and climb in under Barty's cold sheets and blankets, curl in on himself surrounded by the scent of the man's soap and sweat. But no… that was more of an invasion than Harry felt comfortable with and, honestly, roused those terrifying thoughts he'd been tamping down to the surface.

He closed his eyes tightly, curling tighter yet, and let the crackle of the fire lull him.

* * *

"Idiots," Voldemort hissed, flute of bubbly champagne in one long-fingered hand. Harry smiled up at him with fond amusement.

"You think everyone is an idiot, Father."

The man hummed, eyes charmed green like Harry's tonight, face slowly aging to be something timeless rather than the 16-year-old youth it had been when he'd taken over the shade. His father commanded respect with just a look, even to these Ministry peons who had no idea who he was. No one knew who he was, really.

"That is because they are, Harry, and the sooner you realize this the sooner you will evolve. Few people in all the world are worthy of my time, of your time. None are worth investment, but a few are worth at least a second glance." He drained his glass and set it on a passing House Elf's tray, gesturing to a small crowd around the Minister. "Lucius Malfoy, for example. He is worthy due to his birthright, the status he did little work to achieve but has nonetheless. In the years before my… accident, he was a boon to my operations. He has clout because his father had clout, and his father's father. He himself is a decent strategist and has a… creative streak that has always intrigued me. He is worthy of note."

Voldemort swiveled, motioning to a more shadowed corner of the ball room where a few people sat at tables. "Augustus Rookwood, there, he too is worthy of note. He works as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries. He's an asset; getting a mole in that organization was something that took me years to achieve. He is worthy, at least, in that."

He led Harry back to their table, empty now as everyone caroused. Harry's hair was charmed honey-blonde, as was his father's, the small change more than enough to keep anyone from recognizing him. The combination of something simple like a different hair color and no one having even the wildest inklings that Harry Potter might be right in front of them was enough to leave them totally anonymous. Vapid, blind souls were politicians. He sat at his father's side, relishing in the light stroke of fingers over his shoulder as Voldemort continued, nodding here and there to point out former Death Eaters and informants. It was a lesson, as most things turned out to be with his father; he had a streak for teaching, and Harry loved being his student.

Harry's eyes traced the path of a girl, 16 perhaps, long dark hair plaited down her back. She paused beside a man his father had said was an auror, tugging his sleeve. He didn't recognize her from Hogwarts, but he didn't know the upper years very well.

The lapse in his attention was caught. His father frowned. "Ah, so you are getting to that age, then?" he said with a sigh, removing his fingers from Harry's shoulder to push them through his hair. Harry wanted to lean back into his father to ask them back, but didn't. He was nearing 14 now on Ministry record, it wasn't proper to be so attached to the simplest of touches.

"What age, Father?" he asked, his voice cracking annoyingly. He hated that it did that.

"Puberty. The human propensity for copulation, eugh," said Voldemort, an exaggerated shiver making him shake his head. "I cannot fault you it, I went through the same, but I can guide you in safety and intelligence through it, at least."

Harry, who had thus far slept with no fewer than three people, two girls and a boy, kept his mouth shut.

"Always use your contraception charms – assuming you're bedding a woman, of course. Additionally, though potions can cure nearly everything, if you have no wish to have purple hives covering your balls or green sap leaking from your orifices, use protective spells as well."

Harry made a face and reddened, ducking his head. "That is really gross."

"Human interaction generally is," Voldemort said wryly, eyeing the lithe young woman Harry had been watching. "As a rule, sex should be about pleasure or power. Never let another put their pleasure or power over yours. You are born to _rule_ , Harry. Even before your birth your destiny was set in place at my side."

Harry smiled and stopped resisting the urge to scoot closer to his father, just close enough for their shoulders to touch. Voldemort patted his knee with an awkward pause, still so unsure how to deal with Harry's uncomplicated affection. "You didn't always think so."

"No… no I didn't," he said, unrepentant. "But I see it now. You were always meant to be mine, Harry."

That warmed him and he stopped looking out at others, meeting his father's pseudo-green gaze. Voldemort's face was serious; this was not rare, but the slant of discomfort was more so. "In the coming years there will be confusion for you, Harry. Oft times…" his face screwed into a moue of distaste, and for the first time that Harry could remember, his father seemed to be at a loss for words.

He bumped his shoulder lightly, smiling unsurely. "You can just say whatever you need to outright, Father. These years beside you have taught me to understand context in your lessons."

Voldemort looked away, back towards where the Minister was shaking hands. His fingers tapped against his knee. "Emotions, Harry. Emotions are the downfall of so many men, the end of illustrious careers, the death to an able fighter, the deterioration of the most brilliant minds. Sex and emotion seem tied inextricably in society, but one does not need the other. Sex should be and is release, it does not need to herald tidings of love and commitment." Voldemort cut a glace back at him and grimaced. "I should have waited to have this conversation when at the manor."

Harry laughed. "I understand. It is fine, I think… I think I understand what you mean. Don't just get attached willy-nilly, right?"

Voldemort shook his head. "Ideally, never get attached. Friendship, _love_ , these things are the hallmarks of the weak and feeble. We are above these things, Harry. We need no one but each other. Love makes man weak, leaves openings for enemies to strike."

Harry stilled and frowned down at his legs, twisting his fingers. No friendship? No love? It wasn't distressing, necessarily, not with the way his life had been thus far, but it still raised questions from someplace deep within him, areas he'd squashed the life out of when they cried for connections, affection.

Long fingers wrapped around his own. "Come, Harry, let us get back to the party. I've heard whispers that one of my former Ministry spies – him, there, in the green – was less than upright when the trials were on. I would like to get some information from him so I can decide what to do with him later."

Harry nodded, shoving the conversation away.

But it would be repeated, time and again over the long, repeated months of summer at his father's side. Had been stated before countless times but less plainly, only now coming to the fore. Harry hunched in on himself but smiled the picture-perfect smile his father had taught him, shaking hands as he was introduced.

* * *

In the middle-time, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, hours before Harry's internal clock told him to rise, he was aware of movement. Weight draped over him with warmth and the scratch of wool, the scent of spiced soap. Fingers tangled in his hair, lips pressed feather-soft to his brow, his eyelid, the ridge of his cheekbone. Murmurs played in the background of his dreams, possessive whispers of need and belonging.

Harry curled tighter into the warmth, now, a whisper like an exhale on his lips. " _Barty._ "

* * *

Barty's rooms had no windows, so Harry could not say what woke him that morning. Nonetheless, he found himself abruptly thrown into wakefulness, crick in his neck and shivering where he was half tumbled out of the chair. He frowned at his lap, a woolen cloak there still soaked in warmth, his body cold where it had fallen from covering him.

It took long moments for his sleep-addled brain to put the clues together, but when he did he was out of the chair with a start, grinning, moving towards Barty's rooms and tossing open the door.

And there he was, sprawled and tangled in the bedding, snoring loudly with drool pooling on his pillow. Harry couldn't help the surge of warm affection, nor his obnoxious leap onto the man's bed, jostling him awake even as he began singing Muggle Christmas carols as loudly as he could.

Barty groaned and pantomimed sobbing, slapping a pillow over his head. "This is how you welcome me home, you pest?"

He bounced a bit more, making Barty curse. "It's Christmas morning, wake up. I have a gift for you."

Barty muttered about Muggles taking over Yule but sat up regardless, shirt buttoned improperly and hair all pointing in one direction. He yawned as he scrubbed his hands across his face. "Haven't seen me in a week and this is my greeting; woken after three hours rest."

The reminder of the week away seemed to freeze both of them, the smile falling from Harry's face even as Barty's hands dropped to his lap. He stared at Harry, who was drooping now, lips turned down and fingers clenched at his knees. What could he say? The terrifying, clawing things like _emotion_ raged back up from where he had buried them, clambering for attention over one another, fighting to reach his mouth first. Apologies, denials, and professions all fought to be first, and Harry felt as if he may burst from the strain of deciding what to say.

Barty decided for him, standing abruptly and yawning again. "Well, get moving, Young Lord. Where is this present you've promised?" Deft fingers began undoing the buttons on his pajamas even as his other hand reached for a set of robes and underclothes.

Harry stood and shuffled his feet, blood traveling in too many directions at once. "Right, I'll just… get that." He was a coward for running, but he did, going to his bag and pulling out the small, shrunken package he'd had since before the first task. He restored it now and stroked the small box, nervy suddenly at the idea of giving it to the man.

He'd spent hours of research he should have been using on the task to add charms and enchantments to it, learning how to anchor the spells and add permanence. And that wasn't even counting the several hours spent looking through trinkets until he'd alighted, finally, upon something that called to him for Barty.

He turned the box over and over in his hands now, simple brown paper covering a plain white box, rather than any of the thousands of enchanted designs for wrapping. The paper was coarse and the twine knotted, and suddenly Harry didn't even know if he wanted to go through with this.

Barty entered then, plopping down on the ground beside Harry's feet, leaning against his legs and making a humming sound of content. He smiled adoringly. "Happy Yuletide, Young Lord."

Harry's breath caught and he smiled back, shakily. "Happy Yule, Bartemius." His fingers moved to card through Barty's hair and the nape, making him coo in pleasure and drop his forehead against Harry's knee.

The hand that still held the gift tightened, then released. He could do this. It was… it wasn't that big of a deal if Barty didn't like it. Sure, he'd spent hours wracking is brain, hours more searching, then days enchanting it with the best of his young, incomplete abilities. He swallowed and thrust the package into Barty's limp hands, cupped in his lap as they were. "Here you go."

Barty's eyes popped open and he sat straight, removing his head from Harry's knees and looking down at the parcel in his hands. "I thought you were joking about a gift."

"It—it's nothing." He tried not to sound as nervous and awkward as he felt suddenly, though the questioning look on Barty's face made him believe he hadn't succeeded.

Nimble fingers plucked at the twine, letting it fall away. The paper was shredded in an instant, leaving only the small, square, plain white box in Barty's bony hands. Harry steeled himself for some sort of mischief, teasing Harry by not opening it at this point, but Barty's hands – were they shaking? – did not pause long, going to the notch in the side and prying the box open.

Harry looked up to the ceiling at the first flash of gold, twining his fingers. He didn't need to look more at it; he'd stared at it for ages. It was a plain pocket watch, antique gold, with only a ring of simple, flowing etchings circling the edge with  _Bartemius_ woven into them near the clasp. On the back, looking as flowing etchings themselves following the same circle, the words "Be not afraid of growing slowly; be afraid only of standing still," ringed the watch. That had been a silly addition, but one he'd added to try and make the whole gift seem more meaningful and less juvenile.

Within the watch, which told time like a proper Muggle timepiece rather than many of the enchanted Wizard's sort – it had always annoyed him, that – there was a single, additional hand that, with an activation word, could be set to count down to any event. Harry had charmed it, currently, to read "Third Task" in tiny letters on the hand, and its stubby circle noted it as being many, many days and hours away.

He'd left the inside cover blank on purpose. He wanted Barty to be able to add whatever he wanted there.

The watch was charmed waterproof and shatterproof, at least as well as he could manage. He'd been too afraid to test. He'd tried to charm it into a Foeglass or to warm with danger, but it was so far over his head to do so that he'd been sorely disappointed. He'd cast a spell trying to get it to work as a Secrecy Sensor then, heating if someone was lying to the holder, but despite various tests on it there had been no response from the watch.

Barty was silent through all Harry's ruminating, and that was odd, indeed. Harry tipped his head back down now that he thought he would not glow red from his flush, a pink dusting across his cheekbones difficult to see in the dim firelight. Barty had the watch clasped between both hands, held close to his chest, and was staring at the fire with an unreadable expression. Harry squirmed.

Barty turned at that, rising onto his knees, staring at him with that same expression. One hand separated from the watch and reached up, slowly, hesitatingly to cup Harry's cheek, the unreadable look morphing into one of wonder. "Oh, Young Lord."

"I hope you like it?" Harry said in a rush, hunching a bit, but not moving to escape Barty's warm hand.

His breathing stuttered to a halt as Barty's thumb stroked across his cheekbone, gently, slowly. "It is a fine gift, Harry. A beautiful gift. It…" Barty paused, his hand dropping back to the watch, opening it and closing it again, pressing it to his chest. "When I was a boy, the day I left for Hogwarts, my mother gave me a pocket watch. My father had always had one, a silver antique, and I had gotten in trouble a thousand times for touching it, playing with it, when I was a lad. But she gave me one that day and told me—" Barty's head bowed and Harry made an apologetic sound, which was waved off instantly. "I lost it, when they took me to Azkaban. Thrown out like all my other personal affects, I reckon. _Thank you_ , Young Lord. Thank you, Harry." His eyes came up to meet Harry's and Harry didn't bother breathing, afraid that he would begin babbling nonsense at the man. He kneeled there with such open eyes, a smile unlike any Harry had ever seen on his lips, and Harry realized in that moment that he couldn't be without this man.

He was in love with Barty.

He was in love with Bartemius Crouch, Junior, his father's servant, his own teacher, a man at least a decade his senior who was a condemned felon. And those things mattered so little to Harry in that moment that he could sob. He wanted to fling himself forward, gasp his confessions into Barty's hair, the skin of his throat, breathe the words into his mouth and take his own breath from there. He wanted to—

Barty was on his feet, pressing the watch into his waistcoat's breast pocket and keeping a hand there, over it, grinning manically all the while. "Well, suppose it is time for your gift then as well, isn't it?"

Harry felt faint, the dramatic comedown from his realization too much for him. He vaguely nodded, and that was enough to encourage him.

"Perfect!" Barty was dashing off to one side of the room now, pulling down a book and muttering as he flipped through the pages. "Just let me get a protection in place here; I don't want any snooping while we use this. Now, you can't leave grounds, sorry to say, Dumbledore has too many of his little knickknacks trained on you to know if you go anywhere, but I thought this might be the next best thing. Ah!" he stopped and pulled his wand, fluttering it through the air and pointing it back at Harry. The spell missed and went over his shoulder and into the fire.

"Umm…"

Barty's grin was infectious and he felt a small smile creeping onto his lips. He darted to him, clasping Harry's shoulder and pulling him up and towards the fireplace. "Well then, on your knees, Young Lord," and didn't _that_ make his pulse pound, "and here we are. _Riddle Manor!_ "

And Harry understood. His breathing caught and he latched himself to the man's legs, tightly, hugging them awkwardly for all he was worth. "Oh, _Barty_!"

That fantastic, manic grin was his response and the man was pushing his head into the green flames, cooing as he stroked down Harry's back.

"Father!" Harry called, his head swiveling to take in the familiar room. His father's study had been the first place they had fixed up after their bedrooms. "Father?"

With a dramatic snap of his robes, Voldemort strode into the room, grin wide and showing his straight, white teeth. "Harry! I see Bartemius has given you your gift?"

"Oh, Father, it is so good to see you!" Harry found himself near tears, swallowing to keep them down. "I thought you wouldn't open the Floo?"

"It isn't open. This is a direct connection from that fireplace to this one, the only connection that will be available. I agreed when he pointed out the benefits to your being able to contact me, and him besides. But enough of that, Happy Yule, Harry. Has Hogwarts been agreeing with you?"

He rambled to his father then, his great and terrible father who sank to his knees before the fire, still regal but on the floor nonetheless, nodding along as Harry breathlessly regaled him with the recent events. There was no need for this, not really, there was no update that Barty had not likely given while outside of the castle, no plans gone awry. But to just have a moment with the man who had raised him, seeing his wry expressions and patient doting, made Harry's heart quiver.

The conversation was not long, Barty joining him in the fire to remind him that he was expected down for breakfast in the Great Hall, shoulder jostling his. If Harry leaned into him a bit, it wasn't something either of them pointed out.

"I am glad to see my most loyal and my most treasured working so well side-by-side," Voldemort murmured as he rose fluidly to his feet, nodding down on them as Barty cooed happily. "You shall keep up your good work, Bartemius. Watch over him."

"Even without being told, m'lord," Barty said breathlessly, bowing his head until it looked nearly in the embers. "Until my dying breath."

* * *

"So no poison, then?" Harry sighed, tugging at an overlong bit of fringe that was tickling his nose. Barty was sprawled in his chair upside-down, more and more upset by their conversation as the evening went on.

"Too easy," he said with a scowl, fingers rolling his wand back a forth between them, keeping his hands busy. "I want to be able to look him in his eyes so that he _knows_ who has done him in, what his ineptitude has wrought for him. I want him to know that I live and am thriving, away from him, despite of him."

Harry stifled a sigh. Barty's usual stealthy cunning was completely out of play when it came to his father. Harry feared what would happen to him when he had lost himself in the heat of the moment, faced with the man he credited with his entire life's ruin.

But that was why Harry would wind himself into whatever plan Barty made, make himself inextricable and unable to be left out of it. Because he needed to be there for him in that moment, to hide him away if need be, to extract Barty from whatever danger he put himself into.

"What _is_ the second task? If I knew, I would be able to plan more thoroughly."

Despite his mood, Barty found a smile for him at that. "Now, now, Young Lord, that would be telling. You'll get it soon enough, I have faith. You have plenty of time, yet."

Harry sighed. "At least tell me whether it will be indoors or outdoors?"

"Out," Barty said, twisting a bit to be flopped across the chair with his head dangling over the arm at Harry's side. "But he'll be here for the weekend, and likely have rooms within the castle."

"Is he the sort to do so?" asked Harry, wiggling his fingers. "He isn't snobbish like Lucius Malfoy who will, undoubtedly, Floo home to his mansion every evening?"

"My… father has always been a sentimental man," Barty ground out. "He has fond memories of his time in Hogwarts. He was a Slytherin before the Dark Lord's reign, and though he came to despise his housemates in later years, he has a loyalty to the school and his beginnings. He credits his Anti-Dark Arts campaign with beginning right here, as a first year under Head Boy Tom Riddle, and later seeing what became of him."

"I do hope you appreciate how rare it is that you know of my father's past. Other than a few of the very oldest Death Eaters, I think you are the only one to know… or to be allowed to live, at least. Only you would love him all the more for his background, despite his blood status. I think that is what let him keep you alive despite harboring a few of his secrets."

Barty smiled, a weak and forced thing, but his eyes still held that adoring spark. "I do know how lucky I am. I know so much of your father that I feel I know his story better than my own. When I was a boy, my father would tell me stories of how a charismatic, intelligent half-blood boy in his house had been driven mad by Dark magic, lost everything he once had had. It was meant to put fear in me of the Dark Arts, but deep down, I admired the lengths my lord had gone to for betterment."

"His learning, his travels?"

"Those as well. But I mean his Horcruxes, of course."

This time Harry was the one to fall out of his chair, eyes wide. " _Barty_!" he gasped as he scrambled to his knees, beseeching. "Do not ever let him know you know of them! _How_ do you know of them?" Harry felt panicked; his father would kill Barty for knowing this, most loyal or not!

"I was friends with a boy in school, a Slytherin. He was a year older and I snuck out of school to go with him to his induction into the Death Eaters, earning myself a place as well. I look back now and know I was blessed that my Lord did not kill me where I stood for coming uninvited."

He ran his fingers over the top of Harry's head gently for a moment before sitting back. "The boy was my best friend, a cousin. My father would have disapproved very much of our friendship, had he taken even a moment to care who my friends were." The last was said with a growl, Barty's fingers tightening on the chair's arms before he seemed to force himself to relax. "I still do not know what turned him away. But something made him run, made him plot against our great and magnificent Lord. The night before he died, he told me of objects of untold power, the _key to immortality_ , seeming mundane and scattered across Britain. He wished me to take up his cause, I think, and seek them out, but he made a mistake."

"What was that?" Harry asked, settled back on his rear now, face propped in his hands.

"He believed my love for him and our friendship was deeper than my love for my Lord. He was wrong."

Harry shivered. That level of devotion was nearly frightening.

"Regardless, he died then, taking the secret with him. I would never tell another soul, of course, and I never bothered looking into what the objects may be. I do not need to know. It gives me comfort, however, knowing my Lord's power is so absolute, that his mastery of life will go unchallenged, that even death cannot keep him from our glorious purpose." Barty sighed and relaxed back bonelessly. At least the ruminations had gotten him out of his slump.

Harry pulled himself up into his chair, thinking about Barty's knowledge. He knew nearly as much as Harry himself did. That was dangerous, and it made Harry's stomach clench, not in fear for his father's safety but for Barty's own. It was only after the incident with the Diary that his father had explained anything about his soul-containers at all, briefly and vaguely telling him of their purpose as failsafes. Harry, too, had not asked or looked deeper into what the objects were. Too much information was a dangerous thing.

Harry gasped suddenly, sitting forward in his chair with his eyes alighting on Barty, in repose, staring into the fire. "I've got it. I know the perfect place we can take your father to give you all the protection you need."

"Oh?" Barty asked, face swinging slowly to face him.

Harry grinned. "The Chamber of Secrets."


End file.
